The Adventures of Shawn and Gus
by DwaejiTokki
Summary: When young Shawn Spencer overhears that his dad might sell one of their slaves—his best friend Gus!—he hatches a plan to escape to the Free States, where his abolitionist mother lives. But the journey is a lot harder than they thought it would be. Luckily they make friends along the way!
1. Chapter 1

The Adventures of Shawn and Gus

 **Summary** : When young Shawn Spencer overhears that his dad might sell one of their slaves—his best friend Gus!—he hatches a plan to escape to the Free States, where his abolitionist mother lives. But the journey is a lot harder than they thought it would be. Luckily they make friends along the way!

 **Rating** : T, for offensive language and racial slurs, as well as some violence.

 **Disclaimer** : I own neither _Psych_ nor _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn._

IMPORTANT NOTE: There are going to be plenty of anachronisms in this piece. The setting is c. 1830 California. At this time, the territory was still under Mexican rule, and slavery had been abolished in 1829. Most slave-owning white settlers didn't go to CA until the 1849 gold rush, so the fact that Santa Barbara (which was founded by Spanish Franciscan missionaries in 1786) is populated by slave-owning, English-speaking whites is a big stretch. _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_ , on which the premise of this story is based, still holds true, as the setting is around the same time as this one. The Northern States had all abolished slavery by 1804, so getting there would essentially free a slave. The Fugitive Slave Law wasn't established until 1850.

The Adventures of Shawn and Gus

Chapter 1

"You're a nigger lover!"

Shawn flushed. "You take that back!"

But Jimmy Nickels only sneered, cracking his knuckles. "How 'bout you make me, Spencer? _Nigger lover_."

The group of boys standing round laughed meanly.

Shawn clenched his fists, glaring up at the bully, who was nearly twice his size. "If you call me that one more time…"

"You'll what? Run and tell your daddy?" Jimmy took a step forward and jabbed a finger into Shawn's chest. "Nigger. Lover."

The sheriff's son snapped. With a roar, he lunged forward, arms flailing. Jimmy hadn't been entirely prepared, so both went down into the dust, rolling and shouting. The ring of their schoolmates cheered and whistled, shouting encouragements and insults alike.

Somehow Shawn wound up on top, landing punch after punch.

"Take it back!" he said, grabbing a fistful of torn shirt. "Take it back!"

"Uncle! Uncle!" Jimmy cried.

"Not 'til you take it back!"

"I do! I take it back!"

Satisfied, Shawn got up and took several steps back with his fists still raised in case Jimmy decided to recover. The boys cheered. The young Spencer wiped his chin with his sleeve. It came away red.

Glancing up, he saw the object of his ridicule standing a few feet away, nearly hidden in the shadow of a tree.

Shawn shouldered past the others, who were taunting Jimmy for losing to baby Spencer (they made sure not to call him a nigger lover anymore), and made his way over. His friend looked slightly queasy and ashamed, but Shawn paid that no mind. He grinned, puffed up with pride. "Did you see the way I tackled him, Gus?"

Gus licked his lips nervously. "You're dad's gonna be mad, Shawn. He said no more fighting."

"No, he said no more _starting_ fights, Gus. It was Jimmy's fault, not mine."

"I don't think…"

"Come on, let's go to the beach."

Gus followed obediently, despite his protest: "But your dad said to go home after school and do your chores."

"Gus, don't be a slimy magic hairball. My dad knows I'm not gonna be 'sponsible." Shawn stooped and picked up a stick, which he proceeded to drag across a neighbor's whitewashed fence, creating a racket.

The little slave winced at the streak left behind; the paint had been fresh. He didn't say anything else. Shawn had made up his mind already, and the kid was an unstoppable force.

"Hey, Gus," Shawn said thoughtfully.

"Yeah?"

"Wanna go fishing?"

"Well…I mean, I have to do _my_ chores, Shawn."

"Not if you're with me. Besides, your parents will do them for you, won't they?"

"Yes, but they have to do their own work, too, Shawn."

Shawn pursed his lips. "But grown-ups are supposed to work. Kids are supposed to play."

"It's different for me. I'm a slave. Slaves are supposed to work all day, as long as their master tells them to." Gus kicked a pebble ahead of him.

"Well, I said we're going to fishing."

"You're not my master, Shawn. You're only the son of the master."

"Whatever. My dad treats me like a slave, too. If he tries to get you in trouble, just call him an old bald meanie and that's why my mom went away. That'll shut him up."

"I can't say _that_ to my master, Shawn!"

"Tsk."

"Tsk!"

"TSSSK-uhh!"

They continued along the walk in silence for a few minutes.

"Well," Shawn said. "I'll be your master when I turn eighteen. So I'll just set you free in seven years. Problem solved!"

"Thanks, Shawn." Gus sounded touched, but not particularly convinced.

"I mean it, Gus! When I'm eighteen I'm going to give you your freedom. Then we can do whatever we want, whenever we want."

"Everyone will still call you a nigger lover, Shawn."

"I'm not a nigger lover," the sheriff's son said fiercely.

The other boy wisely shut his mouth and followed his friend down to the beach. Shawn immediately kicked off his pinchy shoes, flung his already soiled shirt over his head, and stepped out of his pants, running naked into the blue waves. Gus shook his head, marveling at Shawn's blatant indecency, and sat in the shade to watch him splash around and cool off. He shouted for Gus to join him, but the slave steadfastly refused, knowing it was not his place.

Despite the circumstances, Shawn and Gus were the best of friends. Shawn's father, Sheriff Henry Spencer, was a kind master—he never punished the Gusters, and made sure that they were fed and clothed comfortably. Henry even let Winnie have some maternity leave, and Joy, Gus' older sister, was allowed to be the housemaid, which was much easier work than tending to the wheat field and other outside chores. Recently, Henry had delegated Gus to walk Shawn to and from school so as to make sure he actually came home. Shawn had a bad habit of running off and finding trouble.

Too bad Gus couldn't control the master's son, either, because Shawn was dragging slimy seaweed onto the sand and generally making a mess.

Curiosity got the better of him, and the young slave walked out from his shade. "What are you doing?"

"Gus! Come on, help me get a bunch of this stuff. I'm going to put it in my dad's bed."

"Shawn, no! Your dad is going to be mad at both of us. We need to go home before it gets late."

"Don't be the tiny rock that gets baked into the bread, Gus," was his reply. Shawn stood akimbo with the pile of seaweed at his feet, proudly displaying his bronzed skin. Gus had a hard time not looking down, but he managed it, crossing his arms over his fully-clothed chest.

"Shawn."

"Fine, then," Shawn said stiffly. "I'll go home. But only if you can spell _aggiornamento_."

"Fine! A – G – G – uh, O…?"

"Wrong! Wrong, wrong. Now help me with this." He stooped to gather up the smelly plants.

"Nuh-uh! First of all, that word was way too hard. I'm on a first-year level, Shawn, and let's face it: you're not the best teacher. Secondly, I am not helping you prank your dad, especially after my mom just washed this shirt. And, lastly, _please_ put your pants on."

Shawn rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. "We'll go home so you can do your chores, Gus. But tonight, we're going fishing—for the _Kraken_."

"The Kraken doesn't exist, Shawn," Gus sniped, keeping his back turned so that Shawn would have some privacy as he stepped into his trousers. "It's a creature from Greek mythology."

"How do you know?" Shawn groused back, voice muffled as his pulled his sandy shirt over his head.

"Your mom told me about it."

"Humph. Well, my mom says a lot of things that don't mean nothing."

Gus said nothing more on the matter. The bitter divorce had been a couple of months ago, and he knew how much it had affected his friend. Shawn had been left sobbing in the street, watching the carriage bear away his mother and all her belongings. The next morning he pretended nothing had happened, and life went on as usual. No one ever talked about Madeleine Spencer anymore.

They started off together back to the main street.

"Why don't we just go fishing in the morning?" Gus suggested.

"Boring," Shawn grunted. "Besides, when it's dark no one can tell who we are, so we don't have to pretend to be doing something important."

Gus sifted through Shawn's roundabout way of talking and gathered his true meaning: If it's dark, no one can see you're black. He nodded slowly. "Okay."

The boys continued on in amiable silence for a few minutes, stopping briefly so Shawn could empty some sand out of his shoes. Once he'd gotten his foot situation all sorted out, the young Spencer declared a race: "Last one back's a rotten egg!"

For a moment Gus was startled, but then he recovered and shot after him like a musket round. In seconds he was right on Shawn's heels. The sheriff's son glanced over his shoulder and spotted him. With a swift grin, he veered off course and burst through a neighbor's hedges—a dangerous shortcut. Gus pushed himself harder. Almost there!

He rounded the corner, shirt coming untucked and billowing behind him like a cape. The whitewashed, beachside house with the red roof belonged to the sheriff. Gus was elated. He'd won the race! His shoes pounded against the wooden steps as he ascended them victoriously. Panting, he turned to look for Shawn, who still hadn't made it back.

"Hey, Gus."

Gus jumped, startled, and whipped around. Shawn, standing in the threshold of the door, grinned around the apple he was biting into. "What?! How did you—?"

"Oh, Gus," Shawn sighed, shaking his head. "Gus, Gus, Gus. You poor rotten egg."

The slave scowled. "Whatever."

Shawn glanced over his shoulder, then stepped out to pull the door closed behind him. His face turned serious. "My dad has a guest over," he said. "He looks mean. You go and do your chores for now. I'll come get you tonight so we can go fishing."

Gus nodded, shooting a concerned glance toward the house. He couldn't be caught being idle, especially when Henry had guests over. He left Shawn on the porch and ran off to see what needed to be done. His dad would probably have him water the garden.

Shawn watched him round the corner of the house before turning and going back inside. The apple in his hand tasted bitter, so he set it down next to his father's armchair in the sitting room, then wandered on to the kitchen. His father and guest were talking out back, since Henry had been working on a wood project when his friend had come to visit. They would probably come in soon, but for then Shawn had free run of the house.

"Hey, Joy," he greeted.

Gus' older sister turned from the counter, where she was peeling potatoes into the sink. "Hello, Shawn."

Shawn idled by the island, dragging a finger through a layer of fine flour that she had used to season fish. When he didn't leave, Joy looked inquisitively over her shoulder at him. He offered her a smile. "Is there any sliced pineapple?"

"Well, what you gonna give me for it?" she teased.

Shawn pursed his lips thoughtfully, then pressed a finger to them. "I got some sugar," he mumbled. They'd shared a kiss once in the closet, and he swore that he'd never let her forget it—though he'd never tell, lest they both land in trouble.

Joy turned away, and Shawn knew she was rolling her eyes. "Yes, there is some in the cellar. Just a minute, and I'll go and get it for you."

"No, I can get it!" he said. Before she could protest, Shawn was flouncing off toward the steps that led down to the basement. He clomped noisily downstairs, leaving the door open so as to let in some light. There were rows of shelves, organized meticulously by purpose: tools were dedicated to one side of the wall, extra linens, boxes of old family things that were too ugly (or scary, in the case of his grandmother's old dolls) to be let up into the main part of the house, sealed jars of preservatives and pickled things, and even a few remnants of a wagon—supposedly the very same the Spencer ancestors pioneered in.

Shawn ignored all of this and went straight for the pineapple. Joy often sliced a few up into a cloth-covered bowl and set it down in the cellar to chill. It was the best kind of pineapple there was, in the kid's opinion. He stuck his hand in and gathered several pieces up. The strong juice would overpower the salty fishiness from the sea.

Above, he could hear the floorboards creak as the men moved inside. Their low voices rumbled indistinctly. Shawn quickly stuffed the fruit into his mouth and chewed. If his dad caught him sticking his hands where they didn't belong, he'd get in big trouble. He tiptoed back up the steps, licking the sticky juice from his hand and wiping the excess on his pant leg.

They were too close for Shawn to safely sneak out of the cellar, so he paused just behind the door and eavesdropped. After a moment, he recognized the guest's voice: it was that sleazy factory owner, Harris Trout. The hairs on the back of Shawn's neck rose. He hated that guy ever since they first met, when Shawn and Gus had tried to play with some of the slaves' children. Trout had chased them off, waving a musket at them. Even though Shawn saw it was unloaded, it was still a mean, dangerous thing to do to a pair of kids!

What was a slimy rich guy doing in his house?

"I'm tellin' you, it's gonna be great, Henry," Trout said. "It's a big place, got it for cheap because it's a bit out of the way. But it's nice and big, nice and big."

"And what are you going to make in that nice and big factory?" Henry humored him. Shawn could tell by his tone that he wasn't particularly interested.

"Well, what's the one thing out here in the West that everyone needs?"

Henry, for a minute, didn't say anything. Then, "Money."

Trout laughed loudly. "Oh, that's a good one! But no. It's…guns!"

"Guns," Henry repeated.

"Yes."

"You're going to mass produce guns?"

"Yes, I am. And you, Henry, can help."

"Oh, I can?" Henry asked lightly. That was the tone he used when Shawn tried to make excuses. Trout was in big trouble. "And just what can the old sheriff of Santa Barbara do to help you with your gun factory?"

"I'm looking for a pair of small hands," Trout answered. "There are some machines in my factory that need a bit of touching up once in a while. Oiling, and the like. Adults can't reach those spots, you see."

"What am I supposed to do about that?"

"I understand that you've got a young slave boy," Trout said. "I've seen him around. He looks to be just the right size. I'm prepared to buy him off of your hands."

Shawn's heart suddenly stopped, and he had to clap a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from crying out. _Say no,_ he thought. _Say no, Dad! Say no!_

"Well," Henry drawled. "Why don't I consider it? We can talk about it again at another time. It's already late."

"Of course, of course!" Trout agreed. "There's no haste, none at all. By all means, think it over, Sheriff. It's a big decision. And if you do find yourself agreeable, just give me a holler and we'll finalize all the details."

"Sure thing."

The footsteps receded as the men moved back through the kitchen to the backdoor, where Trout had come a-knocking. Shawn stumbled out of the cellar and shut the door behind him, mind reeling. His dad hadn't said no. He was going to sell Gus to that evil man!

Shawn could still hear their voices as they said goodbye. He automatically turned and ran upstairs and into his bedroom. The walls seemed to close in on him, and the floor swayed beneath him like the ocean rocked a boat. Shawn gasped for air and stumbled over to his bed, upon which he collapsed.

Gus was going to be sold.

Until that moment, it had never quite occurred to Shawn that his best friend was a slave. Slaves were bought and sold, and toiled under the sun all day, and never smiled. They were no better than livestock. The Gusters were better than most of the white people Shawn knew. They were people, too. Gus was his best friend; Joy was his first kiss, and just as much a sister to him as she was to Gus; Winnie and Bill were always nice to him, and they comforted him whenever his parents fought or his dad punished him for something.

His dad was going to ruin everything. Again.

Henry was going to separate the family by selling Gus. They would never see each other again. And the factory was dangerous work, Shawn knew. He'd met a man with only one arm—who'd lost that arm working in a factory.

If Gus lost an arm, he'd probably die. Nobody cared about slaves. Trout would just bury him out back and buy a new slave boy.

Hot tears stung his eyes.

Gus was going to die.

But what kind of friend would Shawn be if he didn't try to help? Shawn was a master of pranks—his knuckles _and_ his rear could attest to that—so surely he could rig something up. All he had to do was pull himself together and _think._ What could possibly help Gus escape certain doom?

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his fingers to his temples. It helped him think. Drawing things out on paper wouldn't do because his father was a snoop, and would surely find whatever plans he made. In this case, no one could know that Shawn had planned this—that is, whatever he did end up planning. Delicate situations such as slave-freeing required diligence and secrecy, which at the best of times Gus was awful at, and Shawn's egotism fared little better when it came down to it.

Bit by bit, the pieces began to come together.

Shawn's mental itinerary was nearly completed when he heard Henry call his name from downstairs. His first thought was that he was being called for supper, but usually his dad would tell him so. Instead, it was "Get down here," which meant Shawn was in some sort of trouble. Shawn was sure it had something to do with his uncompleted chores, but he didn't understand why the fence needed to be red when everyone else's was white. If Henry wanted their house to be different, he could just leave them unpainted. Or it was about his earlier fight with Jimmy, but at this point that was old news.

In any case, the young Spencer couldn't evade his father for long. He rolled off his bed, and, without bothering to change out of his soiled clothes or wash up (the sea salt had made his skin feel crusty, and there was still sand in certain crevices), Shawn clomped downstairs. He spotted Joy in the living room, standing a chair as she washed the windows. He had half a mind to go and look up her skirt (she was fifteen, practically an old woman, and lately Shawn had been feeling peculiar about such things), but there was an immediate danger lurking in the kitchen that had to be dealt with first.

He braced himself for whatever lecture was coming, fighting to suppress his anger at the man who was tearing away everything and everyone Shawn loved.

Henry was seated at the table, open newspaper in hand. Shawn knew that he was only pretending to read it while he waited for his son to show up. He glanced over the top of the pages with penetrating blue eyes. Shawn stared back levelly.

"Well, Shawn," Henry said.

Shawn said nothing.

"Sit down, son."

For a moment, Shawn remained standing in the threshold of the kitchen, maintaining eye contact. Daring his father to _make him_. But when Henry's brows began to rise, Shawn changed his mind. He durst not do anything to jeopardize his escape plan. He crossed the floor and sat directly across the table from his father, folding his hands in his lap.

Henry set down his paper in a deliberate fashion. He was trying to make Shawn sweat by taking his sweet time.

"You just can't do what you're told, can you, Shawn?"

So it began.

Shawn glumly tuned it out. If he didn't pay attention, he couldn't take offense at anything his dad threw in his face. Had his mother still lived there, she would have tempered Henry's words, but their treatments of Shawn had always been an issue between Shawn's strong headed parents, and probably largely contributed to their divorce. Now his mother lived in Chicago.

The last piece of the plan slotted into place. Shawn spent the rest of Henry's tirade mentally solidifying and rechecking the details, recalling snatches of conversations here and there, glimpses of textbooks, and a few handy lies that he'd need.

"Fine, I promise!" Shawn snapped. He folded his arms over his chest and glared toward the living room area.

Henry sat back, judging. He didn't seem to sense that Shawn had been in an entirely different world. Then he rolled his eyes with a shake of his head. "Joy," he called.

"Coming, sir!"

There was a quiet thump as she set something down, then the patter of her footsteps as she entered the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

"You can serve us now," Henry motioned to the table.

"Yessir."

She immediately began to bustle about, pulling plates out of the cabinet and setting them in front of Henry and Shawn, respectively, then the silverware and napkins. Out of the oven came their dinner: fresh baked bread and fish, mashed potatoes, carrots, artichokes, and Winnie Guster's famous butter. The delicious smell was intensified as Joy set them out on the table between the Spencers. She grabbed a spoon and began serving her masters, giving them both hearty helpings of each dish. Once that was done, she fetched some wine where it had been sitting on the counter and poured a glass for Henry, then gave Shawn some water sweetened with honey. Henry dismissed her so she could have dinner with her family in the small house just out back, where they lived.

Neither Shawn nor Henry bothered much with praying now that Maddie was gone, and went straight to eating in silence. As soon as he cleared his plate, Shawn asked to be excused. Without waiting for an affirmative, he scraped his chair back and promptly disappeared up the stairs.

Anger returned to him.

Henry hadn't even mentioned his talk with Trout. He wasn't even going to tell Shawn that he was selling Gus like he was a horse blanket.

Shawn sat at his desk and stewed. The sun was slowly lowering behind the distant horizon. It was time for him to collect Gus and go night fishing as he'd promised.

He went over his plan once more in his head, trying to account for all the things that could go wrong. So far, he could remedy each of those things, though he did not expect that they would happen. It was absolutely, one hundred percent foolproof.

The only thing left to do was get ready.

Shawn changed into more comfortable clothes: a worn shirt missing three buttons, and a pair of trousers with patches in the knees that his father never let him wear in public. He had a few cents tucked into a secret pocket in his pants he had asked Winnie to sew for him, who had agreed not to tell anyone she had done it. In his regular pockets he stuffed a half-used candle, a box of matches, and a small gold pendant he'd stolen (out of spite) from his mom's jewelry box the morning she had gone. He couldn't risk taking anything else.

He quietly climbed out of his window, shutting it after him. Hopefully, if his dad came to check on him, he'd be thrown off by that. Below him was a rainwater barrel with the lid on to keep out insects. With careful maneuvering, Shawn could lower himself so that the drop onto it was much shorter. Then he jumped down onto the manicured grass.

The sheriff's son ducked down and kept close to the walls of the house as he snuck to the back. The lights in the house glowed pleasantly, nearly matching the sunset for brilliant color. He could hear them talking inside. Gus should have finished eating by then, and he was sure his parents wouldn't mind them running off. They always welcomed the extra fish, anyway.

Just as he arrived, the door swung open.

Joy jolted in surprise, clasping a hand over her heart. "Shawn!"

"Shh!"

The entire family hushed, looking his way. Shawn glanced over his shoulder to be sure his father wasn't watching from the kitchen window, but he couldn't see him at all. More likely he was reading in the sitting room. The tension went out of his back, and he turned to Gus in order to give him a meaningful stare.

"Shawn and I are going fishing?" Gus said, his voice lilting in a questioning tone.

Bill rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Oh, all right."

"Thanks, Dad!" Gus cried. He bounded to the door, practically pushing his sister aside so that he could slip his shoes on. "Bye! I'll see you guys later."

A lump formed in Shawn's throat. They wouldn't be so happy if they knew how evil his father really was. But he didn't let on that anything was wrong. That would ruin the plan.

He waved farewell, then led Gus toward the shed where all the fishing gear was kept. While Gus chattered about his dinner and something his mother said, Shawn was preoccupied with the plan. He knew that the small rowboat they'd found some months ago would still be where they left it: dragged up onto the beach and hidden in some foliage. That's what they would be using. The poles, lines, and hooks they were gathering up wouldn't do them much good in the end, but they were necessary. Once they had everything they needed, they shut up the shed and started toward the road that led to the docks.

After a few minutes, Gus picked up on his friend's mood.

"What's wrong, Shawn?"

"Nothing, buddy," Shawn replied brightly, though his smile did not reach his eyes.

Gus saw right through it. "Did your dad yell at you again?"

"Yeah. But that's not why I'm sad."

"Why are you sad?"

Shawn glanced over his shoulder. They weren't far enough from the house yet. If he told Gus what was going on, he would run back and tell his parents. He couldn't risk it.

He shook his head. "I'll tell you about it when we get to the beach."

Gus gave him a strange look, but conceded.

They walked in silence for a long while, their poles slung over their shoulders. Occasionally Gus gave Shawn a searching look, but the sheriff's son's face remained blank and unreadable. Until, just before they reached the docks, Shawn told Gus to hold his things.

"Where are you going?" Gus asked, confused.

"I'll be right back," he promised. He crossed over to a property fence and peered over it. There was no one there, apparently, because Shawn promptly hoisted himself up and over the fence. Gus gaped. Though Shawn had a habit of taking shortcuts through other people's yards, this burglar-like behavior was unprecedented.

A moment later, there was a clamor of panicked chickens, which quickly subsided.

"Got'cha!"

A single white chicken squabbled, wings flapping and shedding feathers everywhere, as it was tossed over the fence. Shawn reappeared a second after, and quickly caught the runaway fowl.

"Shawn!"

"Let's go! Hurry!"

Shawn, the chicken wrapped tight in his arms, made a break for the beach. Gus' feet were frozen on the spot, the poles and lines clenched tight in his fists. Then he shook himself and ran after his friend. "Shawn! Wait up!"

"Ba-cawk!"

" _Shawn_!"

By the time Gus caught up, Shawn was already uncovering their boat. The chicken was tucked firmly under one arm, slowing his progress considerably. His movements were frantic, almost desperate. Gus was feeling more lost than ever. Though Shawn had certainly made plenty of bad decisions in the past, he'd never behaved so furtively—or secretly.

"Shawn, what's going on?"

"Help me get the boat to the water. Hurry!"

"No!" Gus snapped.

Shawn froze, shocked at his friend's audacity. He turned to Gus, scowling.

On his part, the young slave shifted, but held his ground. "Not until you tell me what's going on. You're scaring me."

The sheriff's son averted his gaze, looking at the scuffed toe of his shoe, then at the chicken in his arm. He sighed. "All right, Gus."

An expression came over Shawn's face that Gus found equally hard to read as his blank one. But after a moment, he thought it might be…regret? Despair? Whatever the case, he certainly didn't like it.

"I heard my dad talking with Trout earlier," Shawn confessed.

"Trout?" Gus frowned. "The factory man?"

Shawn nodded glumly.

"Well, what did they say? Trout didn't tell your dad that we trespassed, did he?" Gus looked frightened at the prospect.

Shawn almost considered telling Gus that yes, that's what the conversation had been about—but that would have been a lie. He shook his head. "No. They were talking about how he needed small hands to work his machines."

Gus' fright gave way to confusion.

Shawn's lower lip trembled, and he fought to control his emotions. Spencers didn't cry. But try as he might, the tears spilled over anyway, and he ended up blubbering right in front of the friend he'd always worked to impress.

The fishing gear was set down so that Gus could awkwardly comfort him. He wasn't as good as comforting as his mother was, but he tried to rub Shawn's shoulder the way she did. "There, there, honey," Gus said soothingly, fighting the urge to cry sympathetically. "What's the matter, Shawn?"

Shawn gasped for a breath, furiously rubbing at his watery eyes. "My dad—is going—to," he whimpered.

"Your dad is gonna what, Shawn?"

"He's gonna sell you, Gus!" Saying it aloud set off the waterworks again, and Shawn had to turn away to save himself some dignity. Now he had to wipe at both his eyes and his running nose, though that was difficult and gross to do on account of holding the chicken.

A series of expressions flashed across Gus' face as he processed this information. "Sell…me?" he repeated in a tiny voice.

Shawn nodded. Control was finally returning to him, so he rubbed the sleeve of his shirt across his face, hoping it wasn't too noticeable. His eyes stung, and his nose felt stuffy, but that couldn't be helped. He cleared his throat and turned to Gus—

Who was now crying himself.

"Aw, buddy," Shawn whined. "Don't cry! I just stopped, and if you cry, then I'm gonna—I'm gonna…" His vision blurred as the corners of his lips turned down again. "Guuuuss!"

"Your dad is gonna sell me!" Gus sobbed.

"I know!" Shawn wailed. "Gus, stop it! Pull yourself together."

"I don't wanna go! I wanna stay with my mom and dad and my sister and you!"

"I know, buddy!"

They stood on the moonlit beach for several minutes in this manner, crying miserably. Later, Shawn would claim that most of the sounds that came from his mouth actually came from the chicken, who had picked up on their emotions and joined in.

When the sobbing had at last abated, the boys wiped their eyes, still sniffling.

"What are we going to do?" Gus asked plaintively.

"Don't worry, Gus," Shawn said. "I have a plan."

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm! My dad can't sell you if you're dead."

While Shawn grinned proudly, Gus stared at him as though he'd sprouted a second head. "Uh, what?"

"No, he's only going to _think_ you're dead. Well, both of us. That's why I got this chicken." He patted the fowl's ridged head.

"But…How?"

Shawn sighed dramatically. "Okay, let me start from the beginning of my master plan. Listen up! Your parents know that we're going fishing. My dad doesn't. So when we don't come home, your parents will tell my dad, and he'll come out to get us—but we won't be here anymore. We're getting out of Santa Barbara."

"But what about our bodies?"

"That's the beauty of my plan! He'll never find our bodies. The tide comes in at night, Gus. It would carry us away, out into the ocean, where we'll be eaten by sharks."

Gus still looked skeptical.

"Just help me get the boat. I'll explain it better when we get going. We have to beat the tides."

"Okay…"

In a matter of minutes, the boys had managed to drag the boat out from its hiding place amongst the foliage and across the dry sand. Gus had tucked the fishing gear inside. Once the waves were lapping against the vehicle, Shawn climbed in, holding the chicken firmly between his knees so that he could help row. Gus pushed the boat out into the surf and hopped in, taking up an oar.

"Towards the rocks," Shawn said, pointing.

Gus did as he was directed, working in tandem with his master's son to maneuver the boat. The moonlight cast eerie shadows, and the constant crash of waves lent an ominous static.

Shawn elaborated on the plan as they followed the current. "We'll find someone to give us a ride to Chicago, where my mom lives. It's in the Free States, so if we make it no one can send you back, Gus. Then we'll work and save up all our money, and we'll buy your mom and dad and sister so they can come live free, too. But first we have to make sure my dad can't catch us."

A few meters down the coast, the underside of the boat scraped loudly across the jagged teeth of earth. The wood cracked open from the force of it, flooding around their feet. The chicken squabbled, but quieted when Shawn picked it up and held it above the forming pool. The boys stepped out of the vessel.

"Drag it up here," Shawn said.

Gus did, heaving the broken boat farther onto the rocks and causing more damage in the process. Shawn reached in and pulled out their gear, then flung it randomly. The lines caught on the rocks, as did one of the poles; the other pole was washed away. He did the same for the oars, then helped Gus tip the boat over onto its side.

"There," Shawn whispered. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction. Gus was far more somber. "Everyone will think that we misjudged the tide. The boat hit the rocks and tipped over, throwing us on the rocks, too. The tide carried us away."

"They'll look for us, won't they?"

"Of course. But they won't find us. Maybe they'll find the oars, or the fishing pole, but not us. I'm sure we'll have nice funerals, buddy."

"Shawn."

"Yeah?"

"What are you gonna do with the chicken?"

Shawn shifted. "I need you to dig a hole over by the trees. Real deep, Gus."

The slave boy didn't say anything for a long moment. But then he nodded and turned to do it.

"But first," Shawn uttered, stopping his friend. He reached up, grasped a fistful of Gus' wiry black hair, and yanked hard.

" _Ow!_ "

" _Shh!_ "

Gus clamped a hand over his mouth, but continued making pained sounds.

"Sorry," Shawn said, revealing the few strands caught between his fingers. "It's to complete the scene."

He knelt down and scrubbed his hand against one of the more pointed rocks, then pulled a small pocket knife out. Shawn meaningfully glanced up at Gus, who, queasy, turned and started off across the sand to dig the chicken's grave. Shawn took a steadying breath, then plunged the blade into the fowl's throat. When the chicken flailed, Shawn squeezed tighter, trying to stop the feathers from going everywhere. He couldn't allow anything to jeopardize the plan.

After a moment, the chicken stopped breathing, the bloodied knife still sticking out of its neck. Shawn, holding the chicken carefully, pulled it out, allowing the blood to drain from the wound and splash against the sharp stones. It acted as a sort of glue for Gus' hair, and would hopefully remain until the next morning so it would be discovered.

As an extra precaution, Shawn ripped a strip of linen from his own white shirt and dabbed it across the stab wound. He pierced it on a rock a bit away from Gus' hair, so it would appear to have been torn off from the fall.

The sheriff's son peered across the beach, and saw Gus hard at work. Shawn wiggled the chicken about, trying to shake out every drop of blood. The more there was, the more certain it would be that the boys were dead. Finished, Shawn wrapped a hand around the chicken's neck to keep the blood from dripping a trail across the sand, then headed over to his friend.

"That's deep enough," Shawn said.

Gus had dug a hole knee-deep behind a tree. He backed away, and Shawn ceremoniously laid the chicken inside, positioning it so that it looked to be roosting.

"Thank you, chicken," he said. "Without your sacrifice, Gus would have been sold to the horrible factory, and I would have been sad for the rest of my life. Gus, would you like to say a few words?"

Gus stepped forward and bowed his head. "Yes. Thank you, chicken, for what Shawn said, and also for your life's work. Your eggs have made many fine meals for people, and I'm sure if you've had babies they've also been very good. May you rest in peace in chicken heaven. Amen."

"Amen, Gus."

Together, the boys filled in the hole and smoothed it over. Gus made a cross with two sticks and laid it on top, and then they scattered some leaves and rocks over it so it wasn't noticeable, but the chicken still had the dignity of a decent Christian burial.

"Now what?" Gus asked.

"Now we get out of town without being seen. We've got the cover of darkness on our side."

"We're not going to sleep?"

"Not until we find a good stranger who's willing to give us a ride east," Shawn said. "Come on."

"What about food, Shawn? Money? We are definitely not equipped to travel hundreds of miles."

"Don't worry. It should take less than one month to get there."

"One month! How do you know?"

"That's if we get a ride," Shawn answered, leading the way toward a dark street. "If we walk twenty miles per day, that means seven hours of walking. We have to walk 2,000 miles, so that means we'd have to walk seven miles every day for one hundred days. But I plan on getting rides and taking riverboats."

"If you can figure all that out, why are you failing school?"

"This is real-world application, Gus. Who cares how many apples and oranges Bob has? This stuff is important."

"You have a point there."

"Exactly. Now be quiet. We have to go through town without getting caught."

The boys crouched low to the ground so that anyone who was looking out their windows so late at night would have a harder time seeing them.

Shawn was aware that his plan was easier said than done, but he also knew that he could charm his way into (and out of) nearly any situation. It was simply a matter of finding a stranger and convincing him or her to take pity on the boys. That was when Shawn would put his skills to use. Having been reared to be a sheriff was finally going to pay off—hugely.

Well before morning they managed to make it to the east side of Santa Barbara. Shawn was sure that no one would be about on this end before dawn, at the earliest. Only the fisherman were out this early, and they always went straight to the coast.

As predicted, there was no one in sight.

Shawn and Gus walked alongside the rutted road winding out into no man's land. There was still enough moonlight shining down to light their way, and being the only two out for a mile at least afforded them the luxury of a slower pace. But not too slow, as they still had to be far away before their accident was discovered.

"Can colored folk go to school in Chicago?" Gus asked.

Shawn considered it. "I think so," he answered. "I think you can do anything a white boy can, since you won't be a slave anymore. But why do you want to go to school? We could open a business!"

"What kind of business?" Gus narrowed his eyes. "And don't say a bunny shop, Shawn. You know I love bunnies and all, but I don't see that getting us anywhere."

"And school will?" Shawn retorted.

Gus shrugged. "Maybe I could be a doctor."

"I could be your patient."

"You know that's right."

The boys shared a sly smile.

"Hey, Shawn…"

"Yeah, Gus."

"I just thought of something. Won't your mom tell your dad that we're still alive?"

"Of course," Shawn said. "That's all part of the plan. My mom will send my dad a telegram explaining the situation. And my dad won't be able to anything because we'll be in the Free States—that's way out of Henry's jurisdiction."

"Oh."

"Now it's my turn to ask a question," Shawn said. "Actually, I get two, since you asked two."

Gus conceded the point and gestured for his friend to continue.

"Why are you called a colored person?" Shawn asked. "It doesn't make sense."

"What do you mean? You're white, I'm brown. Brown is a color."

"Yeah, but white people have _more_ colors than brown people do."

"Explain."

Shawn rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "All right. Remember when we had a contest to hold see who could their breath the longest? Your face didn't change color, but mine did. I turned red, then purple! So there's two colors you don't have.

"And since my dad is the sheriff, I get to walk into the mortuary whenever I want. I've seen white folk and colored folk in there, and I can tell you this: the whites turned all blue and gray, and the coloreds didn't change one bit. There's three colors.

"And one time I showed Abigail Lytar a dead frog I found, and she turned green. But whenever I show you or Joy something like that, you both get all queasy, but not green. Four colors you can't turn, Gus." Shawn concluded his observations with a sharp nod.

Gus didn't seem impressed. "We're called colored because we're brown, Shawn."

"Tsk!"

"Next question."

"Okay, I've got one. If you had five dollars, what would you buy?"

"Hmm." Gus pursed his lips, brow furrowed. "I wouldn't buy anything. I'd save it until I had enough to buy my family and move to the Free States."

"No, Gus," Shawn moaned. "No, we're working on the assumption that we've already done that. You have five dollars left. What are you spending it on?"

"Oh. Then I'd buy myself some school clothes."

"Ugh." Shawn shook his head in disgust and quickened his pace. "I can't do this with you right now."

"What? What did I say?" Gus hurried to catch up with his friend.

As soon as he had, though, Shawn grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hurled him off the dusty road and into a sand-filled hole, then jumped down after him.

"Shawn!" Gus spluttered.

"Quiet!" Shawn hissed. He army crawled forward and poked his head above the ridge of the sand hole. After a moment, Gus heard it, too: a horse-drawn wagon was rolling along, coming from the south. A farmhouse was out in that direction. The whole property, which went for miles, belonged to an old friend of Henry's, Brett Connors. He used to be a sheriff, too, but once his memory began to fail him, that was the end for him. His daughter ran the farmstead on his behalf.

But the oncoming buggy wasn't the Connors, Shawn saw. A young couple were seated in the driver's seat, talking softly. They turned not toward Santa Barbara, as expected, but east, where the horizon was just beginning to turn gray with dawn. Shawn didn't recognize them.

"Perfect," he whispered. "Come on, Gus. No time to sleep!"

Shawn scrambled out of the small pit, kicking sand directly in Gus' face. Gus, spitting and muttering, followed.

"Play along." Shawn grinned mischievously, then took off at a run.

He scooped up a hefty stone and, easily catching up with the slow-moving vehicle, sneakily tossed it forward so that the stone was run over by the wide wooden wheel. The carriage thumped over the obstacle. With an awful, hair-raising shout, Shawn threw himself down alongside the road and clutched his leg.

" _Whoa_ , Dobson!" cried a startled voice

"Shawn!" Gus cried, dropping to his knees. The wagon creaked to a halt, the horse nickering nervously as Shawn continued to scream.

"My leg! My leg! Ohhh, I'm _dead_."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" gasped the young woman, who had jumped down to see what had happened. "Buzz! Oh, Buzz, help!" With a hand over her mouth, she grasped the reins and watched on.

A tall man hurried out of the seat and to Shawn, who had begun flopping around like a drowning fish. "Oh, no!" he said, his brown eyes wide with horror. "I'm so sorry! I didn't see you, kid!"

"My _leg_!"

"Shawn!"

"Hold on! We'll get you to a doctor!"

"Is his leg still attached, Buzz?!"

"I don't know, Francine! Please, buddy, hold still!"

"Shawn!"

"My _leg_!"

"Francine, turn the wagon around!"

Gus, realizing that things were going too far, grabbed Shawn and shook him violently. "Calm down, Shawn! Just calm yourself!"

Shawn made gagging noises, but stopped screaming, and finally let go of his leg to allow the stranger to examine it. Buzz pulled up the pant leg and desperately looked for a gaping wound—but found nothing, of course.

"You—where does it hurt?" Confusion was evident in Buzz's voice.

"I think…" Shawn panted, swallowing thickly. "I think…I'm okay, man. Just a fright, that's all."

Gus braced himself for the imminent anger, prepared to run due to Shawn's stupid stunt, but to his shock, Buzz merely sighed in relief. "It's all right, Francine!" he called. "He's okay."

"Thank God!" was her response. "I didn't think old Dobson would have it in him to get us back to town in time, anyway."

Buzz finally made an important observation: "What are you doing out so early? Where are your parents?"

Gus suddenly felt like he would throw up. He quickly set to plucking a loose thread in his sleeve.

Shawn kept a cool head. Feigning innocence, he said, "I don't have parents, sir. They both got eaten by a shark. Luckily, it wasn't hungry enough to get me, too."

The young slave almost wanted to laugh. It sounded so ridiculous, coming from Shawn. Then he realized that they might as well have been orphans, the both of them. They were traveling alone, after all.

"Oh, no," Buzz gasped, horrified.

Shawn sniffled. "It's all right," he said. "I've got relatives in the east. That's where we're going, me and my slave. I had more of 'em, but I had to sell them to get this far. We were just waking up to get a head start this morning when you came along."

By then Francine had made her way over, and clearly heard the tale. "You poor thing! Selling everything you own and only getting this far! I don't know where you started, but we're practically on the coast."

"Yeah," Shawn sighed. "But don't worry about me. I'll get there eventually."

Buzz and Francine exchanged a glance, and appeared to come to some mutual, unspoken agreement. The young man turned back to Shawn.

"We're going to Louisiana," he said. "We can give you a ride, if you like. My name is Buzz, and this is my wife, Francine."

Shawn had already figured all that out, which is why he was milking it. "Shawn. That's Methuselah Honeysuckle. I like to call him Honey for short."

Gus scowled at the terrible nickname, but didn't speak up.

"Nice to meet you," Buzz smiled.

Francine did as well. "You're welcome to come with us."

"I couldn't possibly," Shawn protested. "I don't anything to pay you with…Well, I've got Honey, but…"

"Nonsense!" Francine scoffed. "Do you hear us asking for payment, Shawn? You and Honey are welcome to join us for as long as you like, for no charge. It's the least we can do after…Well, you know."

Shawn pretended reluctance, shifting from foot to foot. "Well, my feet _are_ pretty tired," he said. After another moment of indecisiveness, he looked at Gus. "C'mon, Honey."

"Yes, dear," Gus muttered under his breath.

The sheriff's son covered a snort with a small cough as he pitifully limped forward to hop into the wagon. Buzz, who was tall enough to reach over the side with no problem, hoisted Shawn up, then did the same for Gus. The boys quickly made themselves comfortable amongst their rides' things. There were lots of boxes and blankets; after making some rearrangements, Shawn and Gus were able to make a small nest of sorts, where the wind could not penetrate.

"Me an' Honey have been walking a long time," Shawn said, leaning his elbows against the back of the driver's seat to talk to the couple, who had climbed back up. "We're going to sleep now."

"Okay, dear," Francine said.

She and Buzz shared an endearing look—that look couples shared when children did something cute, but neither were ready to make such a commitment.

Meanwhile, Shawn and Gus made themselves cozy, using their arms as pillows. The fit was snug, but neither minded being pressed up against one another.

"See, Gus?" Shawn whispered, only the mischievous flash of his eyes visible in the shadows. "I told you it would all work out…"

"We've barely got out of town," Gus refuted, but he was too tired to argue the matter further.

Shawn, who yawned, seemed in the same situation. "We'll make it to where we're goin'," he sighed.

"If you say so…"

The boys fell off to sleep, lulled by the rocking of the wagon and the low murmur of the couple's voices. It was the sweetest rest either of them had had in a while.

 **A/N:** Golly, it's been a long time since I've updated anything! This will likely be in three (very very long) chapters, but it may be a while before I can complete it. I'm swamped with college at the moment.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Gus woke feeling content without quite knowing why. The sun was shining on his face, warming his cocoa skin, and he could hear the babbling of water somewhere nearby. Though whatever he was lying on was not as comfortable as his familiar bed, it was good enough for him, and he snuggled deeper into the soft, spring-smelling fabrics. Above him, the hushed tones of his parents conversing.

His eyes snapped open as he realized that the voices did not belong to Bill and Winnie Guster. The slave looked around wildly, finding himself in the back of a wagon. The only thing that saved him from heart failure was spotting Shawn at his side, which in turn refreshed his memory. Oh, yeah. His master, Henry Spencer, was going to sell him to a factory owner. Shawn was saving his hide.

Though they had passed several days in the back of the wagon, staying up late to talk and laugh with the happy couple and sleeping as late as they wanted while they were driven east, Gus couldn't seem to get used to the routine. Every morning he woke as though he were back home with his family.

His savior appeared to be seriously contemplating something as he eavesdropped on Buzz and Francine's conversation, lounging against the wooden wall that separated the wagon from the driver's seat. In his hand was a small gold pendant, which he fingered absently as he listened.

Gus wriggled so that he was sitting up comfortably beside his friend. Shawn needlessly put a finger to his lips, signaling that Gus should be quiet, then shoved the pendant back into his pocket. They heard what the young couple were saying:

"It just wouldn't feel right, Buzz," Francine sighed.

"I know it," Buzz said. "But what can we do? If we don't claim the property in a set amount of time, they'll sell it to the next bidder. I hate to leave Shawn and Honey, too, but…"

"There must be some way to do it."

"Well," Buzz said. "Maybe they wouldn't mind staying with us until we got everything settled. Besides, we could send a letter explaining things to his folks out east. That way, someone could come and fetch him so he wouldn't have to travel alone."

"Oh, that's a wonderful idea!"

The boys shared a glance—Gus worried at the prospect of hindrance, Shawn disgusted at the sound of a passionate kiss.

"We'll tell them when we stop for lunch," Buzz said. "It's about that time, anyhow."

"We could have a picnic under that tree."

"Sure!"

Buzz clicked his tongue, and the wagon began to slow. Gus stared at Shawn, who was as yet unperturbed. He smiled reassuringly. Gus was not reassured. Shawn was up to some mischief, he was sure.

"Boys," Francine said gently once they had rolled to a stop. "Are you awake?"

Shawn immediately went to work. He yawned loudly and stretched his arms and legs, squishing Gus against the side of the wagon. The slave pushed back, clambering onto his feet before Shawn could roll over as he had the day before.

"We're up, ma'am," Gus said.

"I'm not," Shawn denied sleepily, pulling one of the woolen blankets over his head despite the noontime heat. "I dreamt about that shark again…"

"Oh, you poor thing!"

Gus rolled his eyes as Francine and Buzz shared a sympathetic frown. Shawn had been playing up to the couple's kindheartedness, receiving more coddling than he'd ever gotten in his life. It was a disgusting display to watch, Gus thought, as Shawn crawled over the wagon board to get his daily dose of Francine's hugs and kisses. But Gus, directly after thinking it, felt bad—Shawn perhaps needed that love to replace the deficiency caused by his mom's leaving. Winnie Guster had a lot of love, but not nearly enough time to spare for her master's son. And, maybe a slave's love wasn't worth as much as a white woman's.

Together, Buzz and Gus set up the picnic underneath the shade of a lone tree. The man was kindly, and spoke to Gus as though he were a white boy, which the little slave found refreshing from someone other than Shawn. In return, Gus was very polite and responsive, and sympathetic toward the loss of their tomcat, whom they had aptly named Little Boy Cat.

Once everything had been made ready, Francine and Shawn were beckoned over to join them. Francine and Buzz set about pouring glasses of water from the skins for the boys and some wine for themselves (they had let them try the wine, but the boys hadn't liked it very much), and produced some slightly stale bread and cheese and some strawberry jam. The couple promised that they would stop at the next town and have a hot meal. They all took hands—Francine holding Buzz and Shawn's, and Gus holding their other hands—and thanked the Lord for their food and for saving Shawn from the shark and for guiding them all together amen.

In his mind, Gus was thanking God for Shawn being the kindest-hearted, most well-meaning friend a boy could ask for. He also prayed that they made it to his mother's all right, and that Henry wouldn't be too mad at Shawn, and that Gus would soon be with his family again. He had never imagined that one day he would have to leave them, and now that he had he sorely missed them. Part of him resented Henry—after all, he was going to sell him to a factory owner!—but then chastised himself—Gus was a slave, and it was only right that he obey his master. And then he felt bad for running away, and resented Shawn for persuading him to do it, because now he was stolen property—but then he felt bad all over again! Gus felt as though he were going in circles, desperately torn between going back to his duty and following his friend into the unknown.

But in the end, he knew his decision.

Gus would always follow Shawn.

"You gonna eat that?" Shawn asked, breaking his friend out of his reverie.

Gus glanced at him, then at the slice of jammed bread in his hand. With a stern, daring glare, the little slave raised it to his mouth and took a bite. Shawn shrugged and asked for seconds anyway, which were granted.

Once they had finished eating and packing up, they set off down the dusty road again. Gus sat in the wagon, while Shawn made himself comfortable between the couple on the bench, acting for all its worth that he was their son. They laughed and sang (badly), and Buzz even let Shawn take a turn at driving Dobson. Gus stayed quiet, lost in his own thoughts.

The day passed slowly, and they didn't meet a single soul on the road. Gus nodded off a few times, and frequently woke with a start, looking wildly about to make sure that he was not alone, that Shawn hadn't abandoned him, as his nightmares suggested. But Shawn was always there, making up stories about his childhood to tell Francine and Buzz, who lapped them up and then told stories of their own.

The travelers stopped when the sun set. After a quick dinner of canned beans, Gus moved away from the fire and laid down beside a tree, using one of the more comfortably-shaped roots as a pillow. He quickly dropped off to sleep, lulled by the happy conversation taking place a few feet in front of him.

A hand clamped firmly over his mouth, blocking his air.

Gus immediately struggled, a scream building up in his throat—but he stopped short almost immediately, recognizing Shawn even in the darkness. Shawn motioned for him to follow, and Gus did, quiet as a mouse.

The boys crept away from the slumbering shadows of Buzz and Francine; the fire had simmered down into red embers. It was not until they were well away that Shawn stood straight, and turned toward the west—back the way they had come. Gus saw that Shawn was carrying a pack on his shoulder, something they most certainly had not had before.

"Shawn!" Gus hissed. "You didn't…?"

"I left a note," he whispered.

"But I thought we were going to—"

"They're going south. We need to go north."

Gus glanced over his shoulder, half expecting Buzz to wake up and notice their absence. "North is that way."

"I know. But we have to go back to the road that leads north." He shook a slip of folded paper in his hand. "It's all on the map."

"Did you steal that?" Gus gasped. "How are they supposed to find…?"

"Don't be a giant snapping turtle. I copied it." Shawn gave his friend a distasteful look over his shoulder. "What kind of guy do you take me for, Gus?"

Gus was still worried. Now more than ever he wished he were home again.

But they walked on in silence, guided by the moonlight. Soon enough, they came back to the fork in the road. One continued straight the way they had been going with Buzz and Francine, toward Louisiana; the other curved sharply north, then began to meander like a river. In the distance, Gus could make nothing out but flatland.

His heart sank, his feet already aching at the thought of traversing the distance on foot. Gus' shoes were already beginning to wear out.

"Do you know where we are, Shawn?" he asked wearily.

"Not yet," Shawn said. "But as soon as we come across civilization I'll ask." He gave the slave a swift grin, which Gus made out by the dim flash of teeth.

He decided to give up. There was no point in wishing to go back, because it was too late. All he could do was trust in Shawn now. "Okay," he said.

They set off into the darkness.

…..

If Gus' parents could see him now—no, Gus couldn't even think about that. The consequences would be too horrible. More horrible than if (actually, _when_ ) they found out about the chicken murdered in his and Shawn's places.

"Tie it tighter, Gus," Shawn said. "It has to be believable." He pulled the white cloth over his head and tucked the ends of his hair inside it.

Gus suppressed a long-suffering sigh and pulled the laces at the back tighter. The dress conformed snugly to Shawn's flat chest and plump belly. The slave tied the laces the way he'd seen his sister tie her apron, then stood back.

Shawn did a spin, smoothing his skirt. "How do I look?" he grinned. "Am I pretty, Gus? Wanna kiss me, Gus?"

Gus pushed him back as he advanced.

"C'mon, son," the sheriff's son said. "It's not like I'm making _you_ wear the dress."

The slave scowled. "But you're leaving me here alone while you go to town to ask for directions," he said. "And I still don't get why you have to pretend to be a girl. And why you had to steal the dress from the clothesline. That girl is gonna get blamed for the loss." Gus had pretended to be the slave girl's mother, calling her back to the house, which gave Shawn time to run out to the clothesline and take the smock and bonnet.

"Not stealing," Shawn frowned, the last that Gus said seeming to perturb him. "We'll take it back, on my life! Besides, you remember that weird lady that used to be our neighbor? Yang?"

"Yeah?"

"My dad said that she moved into a town in New Mexico, which is where we are. So I can't take any chances that she'll recognize me and kidnap me, Gus. She wants to eat my skin."

"I thought you said you didn't know where we are!" Gus accused him.

"I don't know _exactly_ ," Shawn rolled his eyes. "Everything looks the same out here in the desert. I'm just making sure we're on track. _And_ ," he added, "we need food. I'm going to go to that cabin—" he pointed to the one just down the road, a stout log cabin with smoke puffing out the chimney—"and ask for directions and revisions."

Gus still appeared dubious. "You mean _pro_ visions. And you don't know how to act like a girl, Shawn."

Shawn blustered. "Yes, I do!" he insisted. Then he pitched his voice, and swayed his hips sensuously, saying, "All I have to do is act like your sister."

"Oh no you didn't, Shawn."

"Oh yes I did, Burton," Shawn drawled, twisting rapidly back and forth so the skirts spun. "I'm a pretty lady, Gussy. Don't you wanna kiss me? Mwah mwah _mwah_. I dazzle, and I stretch!"

The slave's lips pinched into a thin line, and he glared, unamused.

Shawn dazzled and stretched toward the cabin, only stopping to hitch up his trousers leg when it slipped down. He walked normally when he reached the road. Gus despaired at his friend's bad acting, and made himself comfortable on the hard ground to wait for his return.

Meanwhile, Shawn formulated a mental plan as he approached. The stable near the house was absent of horses, meaning that someone had taken them to town. But the smoke from the chimney indicated that someone was home—likely a woman. He felt confident enough in his ability to emulate Joy Guster that he could fool whoever was there. All he had to do was be pitiful enough to get information, a meal or two, and maybe some money, but not too pitiful as to be detained until the husband returned.

Seemed simple enough.

Shawn trudged up to the door and knocked.

He discerned movement within, and stepped back as the door swung open. The house's lone occupant was a woman, just as suspected.

"Hello," said the blonde, raising her eyebrows. She raised her brown eyes and looked past Shawn, as though searching for prospective parents. When she spotted no one, the woman returned her gaze to the boy—well, girl.

"G'morning, ma'am," Shawn greeted. He was sure to inject weariness into his cheerful tone.

"Good morning," she replied, seeming taken aback. But she stood aside and ushered Shawn in. He noticed immediately that she was heavily pregnant. "Where are your parents?"

"I have none, ma'am," he said. "That's why I'm traveling all by my lonesome. I'm trying to go east, toward my relatives—but I'm lost, and I been walking for days—ever since I lost my horse and my slave girl."

The woman regarded her visitor, apparently absorbing the information. "Well, why don't you take a seat and rest yourself. My husband will be home soon."

"Oh, I couldn't sympose, ma'am. I just come by for directions, if you'd be so kind."

A wry smile touched her lips at the malapropism, but she didn't correct the word. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't, ma'am. My mama called me Henry—short for Henrietta, you know."

"Nice to meet you, Henry. My name is Karen. Karen Vick."

"A pleasure."

"Would you care for some water, Henry?"

"Yes, please, ma'am. Much obliged."

Karen poured a glass of water, and handed it to the child now seated in her ultra-cushioned rocker. She lowered herself into her husband's wooden chair.

"How long did you say you've been traveling?" she asked.

Shawn immediately detected her probing casualness. He wasn't fooled that easily! "For days, ma'am. I dunno how long, exactly. Lucky my bonnet kept the sun off my face, else I'd be burnt. Or am I burnt?" He used his free hand to touch the skin on his cheeks, which were indeed pinked and chapped from the heat and wind.

"Just a little," Karen said. "Nothing a little ointment won't help, Harriet. Are you hungry?"

"Very, ma'am. But I really must be going soon. I got to get eastward to my relatives."

"I'm sure they'll still be there, Hattie. I can butter up some bread real quick, until lunch is done."

"I much appreciate that, ma'am."

"You just sit here and relax, Heidi."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Shawn sank back into the cushions as Karen got up and crossed the room to the cabinets where she stored the food. She set to work slicing off some bread from the loaf. Without looking up, she said, "Sorry, what did you say your name was?"

The boy paused—and only then realized his mistake: he'd allowed her to call him by several different names without correction. She was on to him! "It's Henry, ma'am. Short for Henrietta."

"Yes, that's right," Karen nodded. "Henrietta."

Shawn waited for her to call him out, heart thudding, but she continued her ministrations in silence, and waddled over to him with a thick slice of fresh, butter-slathered bread. He stuffed his mouth so he wouldn't be expected to answer any questions soon. Besides, he really _was_ hungry. Too bad Gus was missing it. He secreted a portion into his skirt pocket.

Karen calmly took up her knitting and reseated herself in the chair. She waited until Shawn had finished eating before asking how it was.

"Very good, ma'am," he said honestly. "I ain't ate so good in a long time."

"Well, then I'm sure you'll enjoy lunch." She smiled wryly, and glanced up at him in such a way that made him feel all squirmy inside.

 _She knows_!

"So, what's your real name?"

Shawn gulped, and laughed nervously. "I dunno what you mean, ma'am. I done told you it's Henry! Short for Henrietta."

"Honey, I spotted you for a boy the moment you walked into my house."

"A boy!" he gasped. Deeply offended, he let the glass fall to the rug. "Why, I never! How dare you, ma'am! I ain't never took you for a man, did I?!"

Karen seemed unperturbed by the outburst, though she did raise an eye at the water stain on the carpet. "Your bonnet isn't tied correctly, and neither is your dress. A girl wouldn't stick unwrapped food into her pocket. Your shoes are clearly made for a boy, and I can see the hems of your pants legs. A girl doesn't sit with her legs spread so far apart, either, and any girl knows that a pregnant woman shouldn't be waiting on a guest or sitting on an uncomfortable chair. I can see your travel companion out the window right now, waiting for you to come back—with what? Are you planning on stealing?"

Shawn, after sullenly observing her not invalid points, turned in the chair to look out the window behind him, and sure enough, he could see Gus in the distance, sticking out like a sore brown thumb. He felt his face grow hot, and it had nothing to do with the slight sunburn he had accrued. He glared at Karen. "I wasn't going to steal nothing!" he said. "I said all I wanted was directions, because Gus and I don't know where we are, and I said I was hungry, which I was, so you gave me something to eat, and I was saving some for my friend!"

She regarded him for a moment. "Why dress up like a girl?"

The sheriff's son shrugged petulantly.

"Well," Karen sighed, "I can see that you're a runaway, and that you're not going to tell the truth about the matter. And I wouldn't be able to stop you from leaving, as pregnant as I am, and I'm sure the moment you caught wind of my husband, you'd be out in a flash. So there's not much I can do, is there?"

Shawn retained his scowl, glaring now at his scuffed shoes. The bonnet hid his eyes, of which he was glad because the tears forming on his lashes had nothing to do with emotion, but the smoke from the fireplace.

Karen pushed herself back onto her feet. "Come here, Henry short for Henrietta."

He slid onto the rug and trudged after the woman.

"This place is New Mexico," Karen said briskly, rummaging through the cupboards and taking things down. "Just about right in the middle is where we are."

Shawn, surprised, raised his face.

"I don't know exactly where you're going, and I'm sure you won't tell me, but if you go northeast, you should reach the Arkansas River and take a ferry up or down it." Karen grabbed a burlap sack and began to stuff wrapped loafs of bread and jars of preservatives and canned goods into it. "This should last you and your friend for a few days, at least. If you follow the road, you'll go through towns, and you could beg more from nice folks along the way."

She held the bag out to him, and Shawn accepted it.

He licked his lips. "I—I don't know what to say…"

"You could start with 'thank you'," she said sternly, but not unkindly.

"Thank you!"

"There. Now you'd best get out of that dress and go on your way. My husband will be back soon, and I don't need him falling for your nonsense, Henry short for Henrietta."

With that, she shooed him out of the door, and stood to watch him make his way back to Gus. Shawn hitched up his skirt with his free hand and sprinted across the hot dust. The bonnet slipped off his head, and flapped like a tiny parachute from the strings tied under his chin. Karen shook her head and shut the door once he had reached his distant friend.

"She totally fell for it, Gus!" Shawn said breathlessly. "She definitely believed I was a girl."

"Did you get directions?" Gus asked, eagerly taking the sack out of Shawn's hold. He shouldered the other pack as well, and followed to hear the answer as his friend began to strip his feminine attire, while at the same time walking forwards only slightly hindered.

"Yes," he replied, voice muffled in the bodice as he pulled the dress over his head. "I know exactly where we are, and where to go. She also gave me lots of food."

"I have to admit, Shawn," Gus said, affecting a humble but pleased tone, "I was wrong about your acting skills."

"Yes," Shawn said. "Yes, you were." He balled up the dress and bonnet and set off back the way they had come, partly because he needed to return the clothes and partly because they had come too far, passing the turn that they had needed to take.

The boys walked in amiable silence for a while. Shawn took charge of the bags while Gus ate a portable lunch of bread and cheese, then they divvied up the goods equally to carry between them. Shawn also was the one who ran out and hung the dress back on the line, apparently unseen because no one came out to apprehend him. But he hurried all the same, and hoped that the laundress was not in much trouble, if at all.

Not far off from the cabin, they spotted the signpost at the fork in the road that had thrown them off in the first place. The sun was setting low in the orangey-purple sky by then, so Shawn and Gus sat down and took a break, and shared a few strips of jerky. They hadn't spoken much during this leg of their travel, hot and tired as they were. The rest and food revived them, and the friends had enough energy to get them to the nearest town, where they knocked for a night's shelter. A stranger let Shawn sleep in the foyer, and Gus—Satchel Gizmo, Shawn introduced him—with the other slaves in the small shed out back. Early the next morning, they continued on their journey, only stopping to break their fast once they were outside the town.

"Why couldn't we eat there?" Gus asked, sitting in the shade of an abandoned wagon.

Shawn licked jam from his finger. "I didn't want to have to tell you this," he said calmly, not meeting his friend's eyes, "but I saw a newspaper in the foyer. It's about us."

Gus' stomach dropped, and for a moment he thought he might vomit. "What do you mean?" he asked faintly. "They're not gonna catch us, are they?"

The sheriff's son raised his eyebrows, as though the thought hadn't occurred to him. "No," he said. "The article is about how we died in a fishing accident, and our bodies haven't been found. It was really sad."

Relief washed over the runaway slave. Then the confusion returned. "But why couldn't we stay to eat?"

Shawn rolled his eyes. " _Gus_. Newspapers always describe how people look. It would have been really suspicious if two boys that match the description of dead ones showed up in town."

Gus kept his idea that it was more suspicious of them to show and leave quickly to himself. No point in getting Shawn all riled up, especially when he thought he was right.

They finished eating their breakfast and packed up quickly.

"The river's not far off now," Shawn said, pointing ahead of them. "You can tell we're getting closer to water because of how everything is getting greener."

Gus thought privately that it was merely a sign of the change of seasons. He nodded, hoping that Shawn was right anyway.

And, it turned out, Shawn _was_ right. Soon enough (really, it was quite a few hours of walking, but young legs could handle the distance much better than older ones), they could hear the sound of distant running water. Then the chugging noises of a steamboat reached their ears, and they knew they were at the Arkansas River.

The moment the first stream of black smoke appeared on the horizon, Shawn and Gus broke into a run, whooping excitedly. They were almost there!

Other people from the towns around the river were already there, raising a commotion. Burly, sweating men carried bundles and boxes off and onboard; the stench of the fish hung in the air, not in the least obscured by thick smoke from the two stacks on the docked steamboat; well-dressed people loitered, waiting to board the line; behind them were less-than-well-dressed people, also waiting their turn. Shawn and Gus, buzzing with relief, joined the throng.

"Pardon me," Shawn said politely, tugging on the sleeve of a nearby woman.

She looked down at him over the rims of her eyeglasses. "Yes?"

"When does the boat leave?"

"At half past four," she answered, turning away disinterestedly.

Shawn and Gus glanced at one another. The former tugged the lady's sleeve again.

She once again gave him a disparaging look.

"When is it now?" Shawn asked.

"It is nearly four, young man." She turned back to the manifesto in her hands, and engrossed herself in it.

The friends grinned then. Only thirty minutes before boarding, and then they were off to Chicago and freedom! Though Gus had had his doubts about Shawn's plans, now he could feel his spirits elevating high beyond that which was allotted to slaves—and he no longer felt ashamed of it. As soon as he got to Illinois, he would go to work and be _paid_ for that work, and then he could buy his family from Henry. Gus would earn so much money that it would be impossible for anyone to refuse it, not even—

"Trout," Shawn hissed.

Gus started, eyes widening. For a long moment he thought that Shawn had been reading his mind, quite literally, but then he, too, spotted him: Trout, the factory owner. He was joining the queue for the steamboat.

Shawn shouldered Gus into motion, leading him quickly away. They ducked behind a pyramid of barrels. The dock was so busy that no one saw them or became suspicious.

"What's he doing here?" the sheriff's son frowned.

Gus felt cold panic clawing at his throat. "He's coming for me!" he whispered. "He knows we're here! He knows we faked our deaths!"

"Gus, don't be an old sponge with hair hanging off of it," Shawn said. "Here's going somewhere on business. If he were following us, he wouldn't be traveling with Mr. Gruffandgrim over there."

The runaway slave cautiously raised his eye level to just above the barrels, and saw that Trout was talking to another man, at least. He had a very dour expression, and a lazy eye that seemed to be taking in his surroundings whilst the other looked at Trout while he spoke. Gus had the eerie feeling that the eye would, lizard-like, catch him staring. He ducked back down, and saw that Shawn was already deep in thought, contemplating their next course of action.

"How are we going to get on the boat if Trout is there?" Gus lamented. "He'll catch us for sure."

"We could wait for the next boat," Shawn suggested absently. "But there's no telling when it'll come…There has to be another way!"

The boys sat dejectedly.

When Trout boarded the steamboat, Shawn knew that there was no way they could stow themselves—the cargo had already been taken aboard, and Trout stood leaning against the railing and watching others board. He would never miss their faces, and he would be sure to recognize them. So the sheriff's son and the slaves' son were left behind.

Shawn's grand plan had failed.

…

Or maybe not.

Shawn watched with interest as a man on a skiff arrived at the port. He tied it off and was welcomed to town, where he planned to spend the night before continuing eastward the next morning.

It was the perfect opportunity.

It was stealing.

But if Shawn was anything, he was a rule-breaker.

After shaking Gus out of his doze, he motioned for his friend to follow him. The boys crab-ran across the pier with their supplies in their arms, heads swiveling in every direction. They reached the raft without apprehension.

Shawn flung his bag onto the boards as Gus jumped onto it. The runaway slipped the rope free—the river began to pull the vessel away immediately. The boys ducked low, hoping that the sunset behind them would shadow them enough to avoid detection. Luckily for them, the night was cooling off quickly, and a white mist was forming over the surface of the water. Soon enough, they had left the port behind, and were surrounded by forest.

Safe.

Shawn let out a peal of victorious laughter. Gus stared at him, but then joined in. Their voices echoed back at them mockingly until they subsided into chuckles, and then silence. Gus took up a position at the rudder, steering the raft away from the banks on either side of them. Shawn sat criss-crossed Indian style at the front, his back to the swirling mist.

"It all works out, Gus," Shawn said, grinning.

The runaway slave, on the other hand, did look a little troubled. "But we stole. And this time there's no way we can give them back to its owner."

"We need it more."

"But it's still stealing."

Shawn shrugged tersely. "How do we know he didn't steal it from someone else?"

"Two wrongs don't make a right, Shawn. That's what your dad always says."

"What does my dad know about what's right?" Shawn responded hotly. "He was going to sell you, Gus!"

"He's allowed to do that, Shawn! I'm a slave—no, I'm _his_ slave."

"How can you stick up for him?"

"I'm not sticking up for him. I'm only pointing out the facts, Shawn."

"Then why don't you just point out that you think I'm a thief, too?" he sneered. Shawn turned away, facing the upcoming fog.

The boys lapsed into another silence. This one was far less amiable.

Gus wanted desperately to blurt out an apology—after all, Shawn had risked everything to get Gus to safety. He may have been a liar and a thief, but his heart was in the right place. He was the best friend Gus could ever ask for.

On Shawn's part, he also wanted to say sorry—after all, Shawn had ripped Gus away from his family without even letting him say goodbye. At least if Henry had sold him, Gus might have gotten that chance, and they would still have been in the same town, so the enslaved family might could see one another sometimes. They thought Gus was dead because of Shawn.

But neither spoke up.

Eventually, Shawn dropped off into sleep, leaving Gus to stay away and man the ship. The slave faithfully took the position—he had taken a nap at the dock a few hours ago.

A long time, how much Gus wasn't sure, passed. The only sounds were the constant lulling noise of the water around them; an occasional hooting of an owl somewhere in the trees; crickets chirruped; Shawn snored lightly. It was a very peaceful night. Gus was left alone with his thoughts, which were almost exclusively regarding his parents and sister back home. He hoped that Henry was still treating them all right.

He began to nod off, jerking himself back awake again every few minutes. Soon he would have to wake up Shawn so he could get some rest himself. Keeping watch was a lot harder than he thought it would be.

Gus shook himself again, rubbing his heavy eyes hard. He'd been just about to fall asleep when a noise startled him. He looked around blearily, but spotted nothing but the tall dark trees on both sides of the river and the thick mist surrounding their stolen skiff.

The noise was getting louder. _Chugchugchugchugchugchug…_

"A steamboat," he murmured, with decisive satisfaction.

But then a sharp light pierced the fog—directly in front of them. Horror gripped Gus. The steamboat was chugging straight for their tiny raft!

"Shawn!" he uttered, wrenching the rudder to one side. The raft glided leisurely, heightening his panic. "Shawn! Wake up! Shawn!"

Shawn stirred lazily, squinting when the boat's light fell on his face. "What?" he muttered irritably.

The captain of the steamboat finally spotted them, and let the horn blare.

At last, Shawn was startled into full alertness. But it was too late.

As the head of the raft splintered against the hull of the iron hulk with a sickening crunch, Shawn scrambled backward, aided by Gus' frantic pulling on his arm.

"Dive!" Shawn screamed, shoving Gus overboard with a barely audible splash. "Dive! Dive!" He rolled over the other side of the watercraft, just in time—it broke apart, sharp ends flying in all directions.

The steamboat barreled onwards, never slowing.

Water churned all around him as Shawn swam as deep as he was able to avoid the deadly rudder of the boat. He could only hope that Gus had the sense to do the same. He stayed under until his lungs burned for air. Shawn kicked and clawed his way to the surface.

" _Guuuuhhhh_!" he gasped and spluttered, disoriented and dizzy. Shawn flailed about, desperately searching for something to hold onto in the disastrous wake of the larger vessel. His hand struck something solid, and caught it in a death grip.

It was a piece of their destroyed raft, just large enough to buoy him.

Drawing it to his chest for better leverage, Shawn scrubbed the water from his eyes, though it did little to help him see in the darkness. His hair streamed more water until he pushed his bangs back from his pale face.

"Gus!" he called.

No response. Shawn couldn't spot the perfectly-formed head of his best friend anywhere.

A despairing cry broke past his lips. Where was he?! He couldn't be gone now, not after everything they'd been through, not right after a fight!

"Gus! Guuuuuuuuuss!"

His only answer was his plaintive echo.

Shivering, Shawn clutched tightly to his board, looking around still. When he could not find his friend, he knew that he had to go find help. With a silent, furtive apology, Shawn struck out for the nearest shore.

The swim felt like forever. Shawn was exhausted and cold: the energy that accompanied fear was gone then, leaving him weak-limbed and shivery. But he kept kicking until his feet made contact with the silty bed of the river. Only then did he abandon his piece of raft and stagger onto dry ground. His clothes, sopping and freezing, weighed him down.

For a moment, he lay on the grass, gasping for breath. But Gus was still out there somewhere, possibly in worse shape. Shawn forced himself to roll onto his hands and knees, then onto his feet. His shoes squelched in a way he might have found funny at another time, but now there was no time to laugh.

Gus needed him.

Not far off, he spotted a pair of figures in the moonlight.

"Hey!" he shouted. Had he the energy, he would have waved or run toward them, but as it was, he was leaning heavily against a tree.

The shadows' heads snapped in his direction, but like deer they bolted a split second later.

Shawn's heart fell. "No, wait!" he cried, staggering forward. The leaves crunched loudly under his steps, deafening him. "Hello? Wait! Please, come back!"

He stopped to listen, feeling lost. He didn't want to go too far because he had to lead them back to where the accident had happened, so they could find Gus. What if Gus had been right behind him? What if Gus was on the other side of the river, looking for him? What if Gus…

"Hello?" Shawn called again, tears stinging his eyes and anxiety wrapping tightly around his chest. "Someone please help me! My friend is—the steamboat—our raft—he's—I need…!"

The sound of footsteps approached from the side.

One of the figures from before was coming back—the girl.

He couldn't make her out very well in the darkness, but he could tell that she was young, maybe a couple of years older than he was. Her light hair was tied back in a bun, and she wore no bonnet. Her dress was actually a slip, which revealed more of her pale, slender legs than were normally allowed. But Shawn didn't care about any of that.

"I need help," he said, shivering as a biting wind wended through the trees.

The girl at last reached him, eyes shining with concern. "What happened?" she asked.

"S—s—steamboat—hit—raft," he stuttered, latching onto her as she let him, absorbing her warmth. She recoiled slightly from the chilliness of his wet clothes and skin, but did not shy away entirely.

"Come on," she said, "my house isn't far from here. This way."

Shawn nearly let himself be led away like a trained horse, but then dug his heels in. "No, wait! Gus—he's still—the river…"

"You and I can't do anything for him," she said sensibly. "My dad will know what to do. Come on."

The girl carefully guided her new charge deeper into the woods. Shawn, for a moment, entertained the thought that she actually a witch, and that she was going to take him to a secret, dilapidated cabin to use him in her wicked concoctions. But that was ridiculous—right?

"What's your name?" the girl asked.

"Sh—Sh—Shawn," he said through chattering teeth.

"My name is Juliet," she responded. "Juliet O'Hara. What's your friend's name?"

"G—Gus."

"What does he look like?" She guided him around a tree stump that Shawn, though he was usually quite observant, would have missed and tripped over.

Shawn felt confounded. Of course he knew exactly what Gus looked like—could describe him down to a hair. But here was a pretty blonde leading him back to her household, which would undoubtedly be filled with whites, who may not think it worthwhile to look for a common slave boy. He was loath to say anything.

Juliet seemed to take his silence as exhaustion, and did not press him further. They finally stepped out of the tree line and arrived at a nice, cozy-looking two-story house. Smoke trailed out of the chimney, and candlelight burned in some of the windows. She led him up the few steps to the front door and opened it.

"Who's that?" demanded a voice inside. An older, portly man in his nightshirt appeared to see who had taken the liberty of entering his home, his pipe in one hand. His brow creased upon the sight that greeted him: his night-dressed daughter dragging in a blue-lipped boy in ragged clothing.

A woman, wrapping a woolen shawl around her shoulders, peered out from around her husband. "Juliet?" she gasped. "What on earth happened?"

"Bring him in, then," said her father, ushering the pair through the doorway. He closed the door behind them, squinting out into the darkness.

"I found him outside," Juliet said, relinquishing her hold on Shawn to her father, who scooped the boy up and carried him the rest of the way.

"What were you doing outside?" her mother asked, but she didn't hear the rather feeble explanation that Juliet had gone to the outhouse. Instead, she fussed over Shawn, who had been placed on the rug before the fire. "You poor thing! You'll catch your death of cold. Frank, wake the boys. Tell Isaac to bring a pair of his dry clothes."

The father, Frank, stomped upstairs. Shawn looked imploringly to Juliet, who understood the meaning.

"Ma," she said urgently. "He says that his friend Gus is still out there. Their raft was hit by a steamboat, I think. He wandered up here looking for help."

Shawn nodded in confirmation.

"What now, Maryanne?" asked Frank, clomping back into the sitting room. Six bleary-eyed boys followed, tucking in their shirts and rubbing their heads. He gave his wife the dry clothes, which appeared to be two sizes too large for Shawn, but would have to do under the circumstances.

"His friend is missing," she said peremptorily, immediately setting to divesting the boy of his own clothes. Shawn was too cold to care much. "You boys get your shoes on and go down to the river to look for him. I'll go to the neighbors and round them up, too."

"Yes, ma'am," they said, immediately scurrying off at the prospect of heroism.

"Come on, son, pants off," Maryanne said.

"I'm f—fine," Shawn replied, blushing. It brought some color back into his face.

"Juliet won't look, will you?"

It was the girl's turn to blush then. She spun around and left the room, promising to bring a cup of hot tea for their guest. Maryanne stripped Shawn the rest of the way and pushed his leaden limbs into the sleeves and legs of his borrowed outfit. Then she dragged a blanket down from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around his shoulders.

"Now," she said, adjusting it, "you stay here by the fire. Juliet will stay with you while we go and find your friend. Don't you worry, son."

Shawn nodded, huddling closer to the flames as Maryanne went upstairs to dress. He looked around the living room from his place on the rug. Bookshelves lined the far wall beside the curtained windows; a piano was pushed in the far corner, covered with several books of sheet music; several chairs were placed around the room: enough for the family and a few guests; portraits hung on the walls and on the mantelpiece, which was also adorned with several vases. All in all, it seemed a very pleasant, but boring, home.

A few minutes later, Juliet came back with a steaming mug. She had also donned an apron to more appropriately conceal herself. "Here," she said, kneeling beside him to hand the cup to him.

Shawn accepted it gratefully, hoping that they would extend the same kindness to Gus when they found him. If they found him.

He sipped it, shooting a glance toward the front door.

"It's only been a few minutes," Juliet said, noticing his look. "I'm sure they'll find him."

Shawn nodded, turning back to the fire. He heard Maryanne descend the stairs again and leave, telling Juliet to mind after the boy.

"Where are you from, Shawn?" Juliet asked conversationally.

"West."

"O-kay." Silence reigned for several seconds, but, not one to be deterred, she started it up again. "Where are your parents?"

"Dead."

"Oh. Sorry."

Shawn shook his head. "We're going east to live with an aunt. Well, I am, at least. Gus is j—just going with me."

"Hmm." For lack of anything else to say, Juliet patted his shoulder. "Do you want to try and sleep?"

"I'll wait for Gus."

"Okay."

Shawn sipped the tea until it was gone. It warmed him up considerably, and he felt much better for it. All he needed was for Gus to show up at the door, sopping wet, and getting on to him to pushing him off the raft and then leaving him down at the river.

Juliet didn't say anything more, only sat in companionable silence, occasionally shooting him empathetic glances. When Shawn began to nod off, she took pity on him and let him lean on her shoulder while she stroked him comfortingly.

"Wake me up when Gus is here," he murmured.

"I will," she promised.

"He's my only friend in the whole world."

Juliet couldn't bring herself to promise that they would find him safe and sound. She hugged him closer instead, and felt his breathing even out as he finally slept.

…

Shawn woke to the sound of low murmuring. His father must have had guests over. But so early? Either that, or Henry let Shawn sleep in way later than usual. Maybe he was sick—he felt like it.

But no, that couldn't be the case, because Shawn's memory suddenly came rushing back.

A steamboat had hit their stolen raft, and he and Gus had been separated in the dark. Shawn had gone for help. Those were the voices: the family that had helped him the night before.

A hand touched his face.

"Gus!" he cried joyously, sitting up and grasping the wrist. His face fell when he saw that it was not his friend, but Juliet, who looked slightly startled. Shawn slowly relaxed his grip, and she gently extricated her hand from his.

"Are you hungry, Shawn?" she asked softly.

Shawn, after a quick glance around to ascertain his whereabouts—someone had placed him on the sofa at some point—shook his head. He was hungry, but Gus' absence stole his appetite. It was obvious that they hadn't found his friend; Juliet's face carried the dread of being asked, of being forced to disappoint the poor kid. So Shawn didn't ask.

"You should eat something anyway," Juliet said. "You've slept most of the day away. It's nearly dinner time now."

He let himself be led into the kitchen, where the rest of the family was seated around the table. Immediately upon catching sight of him, they all quieted. Shawn had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being pitied. He hated that. Juliet must have told her family what he had said about being an orphan with only one friend in the world.

"Why don't you sit down, kid?" Frank offered. "I'll bet you're hungry."

Shawn didn't refuse. He took the indicated seat between two much older boys. Juliet circled around and took the seat across from him. He realized that Juliet was the only daughter—at least, the only one living at home. Maryanne bustled over and heaped some victuals onto his plate: grilled chicken and roasted vegetables. It was much more than he would be able to eat, but still he said nothing.

Frank cleared his throat and opened his mouth as though to say something, but a stern look from Maryanne halted him. Instead, he opened the newspaper and set to reading the front page. Juliet and her brothers started eating. Shawn followed suit, or pretended to. He really wasn't hungry.

After a few meager bites, Shawn pushed his plate away. No one said anything about it, but out of the corner of his eye he saw that everyone shared an uneasy glance.

The O'Haras attempted to include him in various activities ("Do you like to play piano?" "We're going hunting—wanna come?" "Help yourself to any of the books here, son." "Know any card games, Shawn?" "You can use the bathtub, if you like." "There's some crayons, if you want to draw."), but Shawn always refused. It wasn't that he was trying to be contrary. It just felt so wrong without Gus. All he really wanted to do was go down to the river and look for him. There had to be some sign of him.

There had to be.

Shawn sat in the window seat of the boys' bedroom, watching the sky change colors and hiding from the others. It was probably because he'd slept for most of the day, but it seemed that the sun set much earlier than usual. He swore up and down to himself that the tears streaming down his cheeks were from the light, not because Gus was probably gone forever. Shawn decided that he could never show his face to anyone who knew him again: he'd as good as killed his best friend. He was practically a murderer. He'd have to live on the lam.

A quiet knock on the door preceded the entrance of Ewan. He was easily the biggest of the boys, but not the oldest. "Hey, Shawn," he said. "You didn't come down for supper, so I brought you a plate, if you want it."

Shawn eyed it over his shoulder. The thought of eating, when Gus would never eat anything again, made his stomach lurch. He shook his head and turned back to look outside. He spotted Juliet disappear into the trees, looking back as though to be sure she wasn't being followed.

"Okay," Ewan said. "All the same, I'll leave it here by the bed."

The sound of ceramic on wood, then the sound of the door being shut, allowed Shawn to relax slightly. Questions whirred through his mind.

The night before, he'd seen Juliet with another figure on the riverbank, but quick retrospection did not match the figure with any of Juliet's brothers. They had run when he'd called out, meaning they weren't supposed to be meeting. Shawn had the sudden sense that Juliet might be in danger.

As much as he resented the O'Haras for being unable to find Gus for him, he knew rationally that they had probably done their best, and Juliet had taken good care of him. The least he could do was make sure the man she was meeting wasn't a serial killer. His dad had told him about such cases, where strangers wooed young girls for the sole purpose of attaining the thrill of the kill. Shawn hadn't been able to protect Gus, but maybe this was his chance to redeem himself.

He rubbed his nose against the sleeve of his shirt—his own shirt, which Juliet had washed and returned to him in better condition than it had been in a long time—and threw open the window. He was on the second story, but the drainage pipe led down to the ground, and appeared sturdy enough to hold his weight. And he spotted telltale scuffmarks along the whitewash of the wall that said he wouldn't be the first to sneak out this way.

Shawn nimbly and quietly made his escape, then ducked low and ran into the forest. He had a hunch that they would meet in the same place as before.

Sure enough, when he managed to retrace their steps from the previous night, he spotted the figures again. One was unmistakably Juliet. The other was a tall boy with dark hair and bright blue eyes. His lashes were so thick and dark that even the prettiest girl probably had a pang of jealousy.

"I don't know," Juliet was saying. "I mean, you remember the boy from last night? His raft was hit by a steamboat. That might happen to us…"

"No, trust me, Jules," the boy said. "He's pretty young, right? Probably really inexperienced. I bet they weren't banging a pot to let other boats know they were there. When the river is misty, no one can see each other until it's too late."

"Yeah…" Juliet still sounded uncertain. "Declan, how are we going to get enough money to survive? We have to get far away. I mean, I have some pocket money, but that's nowhere near enough."

Shawn strained his ears as their plans became more hushed.

"Don't worry about that. I have a way to get a load of money. And I can get it real soon."

"What do you mean?" Her voice hardened slightly. "Declan, I thought we agreed no stealing."

"No, of course not!" he said. "Just trust me."

"Declan…"

"You trust me, don't you?" he persisted.

Juliet sighed. "You know I do. It's just…how are you going to get the money? Why can't you tell me?"

"Sweetheart…"

"Declan, please."

"All right." Declan rubbed his forehead, then shoved his hands into his pockets. He turned from his girlfriend and looked out across the river. "Well, last night, when I was headed home," he started, "I came across a gold mine."

"A gold mine," Juliet deadpanned.

"Oh, not literally," Declan chuckled. "I'm no Stinky Pete."

"Go on, Declan."

Shawn fidgeted suspiciously. He really didn't like this guy. Not at all. _Go on, Declan_ , he thought. _Tell me how evil you are, with your gorgeous face and your nice clothes and your—your stupid beautiful eyelashes._

Declan cleared his throat, obviously stalling. Whatever his gold mine was, he was afraid his love would disapprove.

"Declan." Juliet was beginning to sound upset.

"I'm not going to lie," Declan said. "Last night, I came across a runaway slave. I captured him. Tomorrow I can take him to town and sell him—or get a reward, whichever is possible. That's gotta be a lot of money, enough to get us to wherever we want!"

"Declan!" Juliet gasped, appalled.

White-hot rage blinded Shawn as a furious roar tore from his throat. The pair hardly had time to turn, shocked, as Shawn flew out from his hiding place, fists swinging. Though Declan was nearly three heads taller than him, he went down hard. Shawn rained blows down on him, screaming senselessly.

"Shawn, stop!" Juliet cried. She entered the fray, grasping wildly at Shawn's arms, and pulled him off. "Shawn! Shawn, stop it!" She wrapped her arms tightly around him, restraining him.

"He's _my_ Gus!" Shawn yelled, kicking at Declan, who was still lying prostrate with his hands protecting his head. He rolled over, staring incredulously at the boy. "He's _my_ Gus! You can't sell him! He's not an animal! _You're_ an animal! Gus is _my_ friend!"

"Oh my god," Juliet gasped. "Your friend Gus is a slave?"

"No, I'm freeing him!" Shawn shouted, still struggling in her hold. He didn't dare hit her, though. "You can't take him! You can't take him! I'll tell your parents! I'll tell them, and then you'll never be able to run away with your evil boyfriend!"

"Calm down, Shawn! Please, just calm down," she implored him.

Declan looked pained, and more than ashamed of himself. "I didn't know he had an owner," he apologized fervently. "I'll give him back to you, honest, kid! Just don't tell anyone, please."

Shawn glared at him, but at least stopped aiming hard blows at him. "I'm not his owner," he declared. "I'm his friend. And he's mine. And we're going to the Free States!"

The teenagers looked a bit troubled at that.

"Shawn," Juliet said gently, "did you steal Gus?"

The sheriff's son immediately deflated. If word got out that Shawn had stolen a slave named Gus, news of that would surely reach far and wide, and his dad might hear about it. And then Gus would be shipped off to the factory like Henry had originally intended, and Shawn would be grounded forever—or worse, sent to military school.

"He's my friend," he argued weakly.

"Okay," Juliet said, "let's all just calm down. We can think of something."

Shawn sniffed. "We can deal."

"What kind of deal?" Declan asked, brushing himself off.

Juliet tentatively let Shawn go. The trio stood apart, facing one another.

"You don't tell anyone about Gus," Shawn said, "and I'll help you run away."

"You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours," Juliet nodded, understanding.

Shawn gave her an odd look. "No, Jules, that's—well, we can do that, but that's a different deal."

She rolled her eyes half-heartedly. "I know. It's just a saying."

Declan folded his arms over his chest. "How can you help us? You're just a kid."

Shawn puffed up. "All we need's a raft and some food. And," he dug into his pocket, and pulled something out of it. He opened his hand to reveal his mother's pendant. "A jeweler."

"I have a raft," Declan said. "And food."

"My neighbor is a jeweler," Juliet offered.

"Can we see him now?" Shawn asked.

Juliet shrugged in consent.

"Then we'll meet back here in an hour," Shawn said. "You get the raft and food ready, and bring Gus. Jules and I will get the money."

…

Gus half-considered running away while Declan wasn't looking. But then he remembered that he had nowhere to go—except back to California. And then he'd probably be tried for murder, because face it, a presumably dead slave turns up without his master's son? Not to mention that Shawn probably _was_ dead now, and it was all Gus' fault. If he had paid better attention, had woken up Shawn sooner, had managed to move the raft in time to avoid the steamboat, had—but none of that mattered anymore. Shawn was gone.

So Gus sat dejectedly on the raft—not the one he and Shawn had stolen, but Declan's—waiting for Declan to take him to town to be sold. That was the only reason Gus could guess that Declan was keeping him a secret. He probably wanted to get rich, though Gus didn't know how much money he'd sell for. He wasn't accustomed to very hard work, unless keeping track of Shawn counted—but he'd failed even that once he'd taken the plunge.

He sniffled and wiped his running nose. Gus couldn't remember ever being so miserable. He missed his family so much it hurt, but knowing that Shawn was dead—drowned, most certainly—felt like a hole in his chest.

Declan shot him a nervous glance, and Gus knew he should be quiet, but it was hard to contain his whimpering and sobbing. Then he peered into the dark trees.

"Psst! Juliet, is that you?"

A figure emerged, carrying a bag over the shoulder. At first glance Gus thought it was a boy, but when she moved, her breasts stood out clearly outlined in the moonlight. It was a poor disguise, a girl dressed as a boy, with locks of her blonde hair falling out of her hat, but he excused it as hastily done, which it obviously was.

"Where's the kid?" Declan whispered. "You got the money?"

"Yeah," she said. "Sorry it took so long—we got some more supplies from the house." Juliet looked at Gus, who stared back solemnly. A queer look that he couldn't quite read crossed her face, but there was no time to decipher it. Another figure ran helter-skelter from the trees, clutching a hat to his own head.

"They're right behind me!" he whisper-shouted. "They saw me! Go!"

There was no time to ask who followed him, because a cacophony of shouting erupted, as well as hounds baying.

Juliet paled. "My brothers are looking for me. There's no way we can get away now!"

"Get on the raft, both of you," Declan said, shoving them toward the craft.

The pair clambered on unsteadily, while Gus shrank into a tighter ball, hoping to avoid detection. Dogs scared the hell out of him. He knew what they did to slaves.

"Declan, get on!" Juliet urged him.

But Declan didn't. He splashed into the river, pushing the raft out to the swift current.

"I'll catch up with you," he said.

"Declan!" Juliet cried.

He gave her a small wave, then ran off into the trees. Moments later, the hounds caught his scent and tore after him, snarling loudly. No one came out to the bank and spotted them floating off.

"We have to go back!" Juliet said.

"He said he'll catch up," Shawn told her, reaching out for the rudder. "I'll drop you off at the next landing, if you want, but I can't risk—Gus, are you sleeping? Wake up! Jules, I can't risk Gus."

For some reason, Gus hadn't recognized Shawn's voice before he was directly addressed—something about believing him to be dead had caused it, surely. But when Shawn spoke him, Gus jolted as though electrified, and spun around wide-eyed.

Yes, it was Shawn, wearing clothes too big for him and hat that made him look like a London chimneysweep.

"Shawn!" he uttered.

Shawn grinned at him. "Did you miss me, buddy?"

"Shawn! Shawn!"

Gus launched himself at his friend and enveloped him tightly. Shawn released the rudder and held him back. Neither admitted to their tears, and Juliet, who watched the endearing scene despite her worry for Declan, never brought it up.

 **A/N:** Sorry for the long wait! Thank god for spring break.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Juliet wondered how on earth Shawn and Gus had gotten so far. She sat back and watched them bicker over who was the more likely to have died the night of the steamboat accident—Gus insisted that, since he had been knocked unconscious and washed ashore where Declan found him, he had been closer to death, but Shawn was certain that he would have drowned had he not caught hold of the raft to stay afloat. Juliet couldn't bring herself to decide whether it mattered "who almost died more than the other."

 _Boys_ , she thought, shaking her head. She tied the bonnet under her chin. Shawn had informed her that there was no way she could pass as a boy in the daylight, and Gus told her it was iffy even in the darkness, so she had changed back into her normal clothes. It was a shame. She'd liked wearing the pants.

"Whatever, I can't do this with you," Shawn said with fond exasperation.

"Tsk!"

"Tsk!"

"TSK!"

"There's the next landing," Shawn pointed out, abandoning the banter.

The pier was nearly completely submerged in the murky water, which playfully danced and sparkled under the bright sunlight. An old man sat in a wooden chair, sleepily fishing without realizing that his line was tangled. Shawn turned the rudder so that the raft headed toward the dock. Looking past the muddy road, Juliet could just make out some buildings beyond the trees.

She could wait for Declan there.

Gus reached out and slipped the rope around one of the posts, anchoring the raft. Shawn poured the money they had gotten from the gold pendant into his hand, then divided it up equally, as had been the plan from the beginning. He put half back into the bag, then handed it to Juliet.

She smiled at him. "Well," she said. "Good luck with your aunt, Shawn. Good luck, Gus."

"You, too," Shawn said.

Gus nodded.

"I wish we could come up there with you, Jules," Shawn said apologetically. "But we're going to get going as soon as possible. We can never stay too long in one place."

"No, I understand," Juliet said. "Don't worry about it. Shawn…I really appreciate everything you've done." Then, without seeming to think about it, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

Shawn blushed.

The boys watched as Juliet stepped off the raft and onto the pier, walking off without a backwards glance. Gus gave Shawn a sidelong look. "You just got kissed by an older woman," he said. "And you did not say anything smooth, Shawn."

"Shut up, Gus!"

"You should have kissed her back, Shawn. She wanted it."

"I said shut up!"

"Shouldn't we be getting out of here?"

"You know that's right," Shawn replied. He reached over and unlooped the rope, then, with Gus' help, guided the craft around the dock. Gus got a faceful of tangled fishing line, but they made it out okay.

"Wait!"

The boys turned, startled, to see Juliet running back towards them. Her bonnet slipped, freeing her long blond hair, and she was again showing much more leg than generally acceptable by holding her skirts up and out of the way. Shawn made a grab for one of the posts, but missed—the raft was too far, and the current too swift to battle.

"What is it?" he yelled at her.

But she didn't respond just then. Instead, she reached the end of the pier—and didn't stop. Juliet leapt. Shawn instinctively held out his arms to catch her, and took her full weight. She being a few years older, and therefore bigger, than he, both crashed hard onto the raft, which bobbed violently under the sudden impact. Water splashed over the boards, wetting them a bit.

"Are you okay?" Gus exclaimed.

Juliet quickly pushed herself up, then helped Shawn, who didn't let on that Juliet had nearly squashed him like a hotcake. "Sorry!" she said, rearranging her garments.

"What's the matter, Jules?" Shawn asked, confused.

She cleared her throat, cheeks tinging pink. "I've decided that…that—well, I've changed my mind, is all."

The boys stared at her, exchanged a glance, then stared at her some more.

"I mean," she continued awkwardly, "well, you two will need all the help you can get. Declan can take care of himself, you know. I'll send a letter to my parents and to Declan, in case he's still there, so he'll know where to find me. Besides, I need to get as far away as possible, too. And a young girl like me shouldn't be traveling by herself."

Gus wiggled his eyebrows at Shawn as though to say, "She likes you, Shawn."

Shawn scowled at his friend. To Juliet, he said, "I guess you're right. You can come with me and Gus for as long as you like. We can—oh!"

The trio lurched to one side in surprise as the raft came to a sudden stop. It had gotten caught on a sawyer—now that they had hit it, Shawn could see the submerged trees where they had fallen during the rainy season. They sat in stunned silence for a few minutes, untangling themselves.

"We're stuck!" Gus cried.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Shawn shot back. "Hold on. Maybe if I…" He lowered one leg into the water and swung it around, hoping to connect with whichever branch held them captive. "Ugh. It's no good!"

"One of us has to go ashore and find someone to help," Juliet said wisely.

"But what if we break free while whoever went is gone?" Gus asked.

"You're right," Shawn nodded. "We'll have to figure something else out."

"We could be stuck out here for hours before anyone else comes by," Juliet protested.

"True," Shawn frowned. "Well, I'll go find somebody. If you guys _do_ break free before I'm back, find a place to shore the raft until I come back."

"Okay," Gus and Juliet agreed.

"Be careful, Shawn," the runaway slave said. "Seriously."

"Careful's my middle name!"

"No, it's not, Shawn. Your middle name is Orlando."

"Which makes my initials S.O.S., which is code for careful."

"S.O.S. means Save Our Ship, Shawn."

"That's what I'm trying to do, Gus! Pay attention."

With that, Shawn hopped off the watercraft and swam to the bank. He shook himself like a wet dog, clambered up onto the grass, and looked both ways. Then he headed off back towards the dock, where hopefully the old fisherman might make himself useful. The river had carried them pretty far in only a few minutes; if they had been manning the rudder, they'd have been fine. Oh well.

He walked for several yards before he spotted someone in the trees. Shawn guessed he was a hunter, since the tall, lanky man carried a shotgun over his shoulder.

"Hey!" he called, waving for attention.

The man whipped around, startled, and nearly leveled the weapon before realizing it was a child. His hawkish face contorted into a ruffian scowl. "What?" he snapped.

Shawn supposed his mood was soured because he hadn't had much luck with his hunting. But there was no one else around at the moment, it seemed, so the grouch would have to do. "Can you help us?"

Blue eyes darted around and spotted no one with the boy.

Helping him out, Shawn pointed, sleeve dripping, back in the direction he had come. "Our raft is snagged on a sawyer."

The man eyed Shawn's wet clothes, and apparently decided that he was telling the truth. "Your raft, you say?" he asked.

"Yeah. We need help getting it unstuck. We can't reach the snag." Shawn appraised the stranger. "Your legs look long enough for the job."

The man's lips twitched a bit. Shawn himself hadn't noticed the difference, but when he had said the last, Shawn acted and sounded very much like his stern father. The stranger frowned, apparently considering whether he should help.

"Please," Shawn added at last.

But the man still hesitated. A mixture of emotions crossed his face, though mostly in his eyes. Shawn thought he saw something like regret, but he didn't enquire into it because the man started off in the direction of his raft.

"You're gonna help?"

He received a grunt in response, which the kid supposed was a yes.

"I told Gus and Jules that if they broke free without me, they should wait for me downriver, but I don't think the raft can break away on its own. Are you a hunter? Why do you have so many guns?" For the man carried four guns, Shawn noticed: the shotgun, two pistols in a shoulder harness under his jacket, and another pistol holstered at his hip. "Can I hold one? Touch one? What's your name? Mine is Shawn. Look, there they are!"

He needn't have pointed them out, because the raft and its remaining occupants were clearly beholden. Gus and Juliet waved, happy to see a rescuer. Gus' head was drenched; he'd attempted to spot the obstruction by looking underwater, but hadn't been able to see through the murkiness. The man paused and glared, jaw clenched.

"What's the matter?" Shawn asked. He thought his new friend appeared to be frustrated, maybe at the prospect of having to get wet in order to help.

"Nothing," he grunted. He immediately began to strip himself of his weapons, laying them on the grass, and emptied his pockets of their contents, which included a badge.

"You're a sheriff!" Shawn exclaimed.

"Shh!"

Shawn clapped a hand over his mouth. "You're a sheriff," he said more quietly, eyebrows quirked in confusion.

The stranger exhaled through his nose, then fixated Shawn with a stern look. "Don't touch my things," he said. He slipped out of his polished shoes, then waded out into the water to free the companions.

The boy waited for the stranger to reach the raft—being tall, the water only reached his chest—before kneeling next to his belongings. The weaponry and badge were well cared for, but his leather wallet was worn and probably had some sentimental value. One of the objects was a folded piece of paper, which immediately set Shawn's curiosity abuzz. Shooting a discrete glance towards the busied officer of the law, he snatched it up and peeked at it.

His eyes widened in horror, jaw dropping. Heart thudding, Shawn looked across the water. Gus and Juliet were clinging to the raft boards as the man tried to wrench it free—and Shawn became suddenly and excruciatingly aware that the both of them could be tipped off the raft and left to drown. Gus might be okay, but Juliet's dress would drag her down and tangle her legs, and he wasn't even sure that she _could_ swim.

There was only one thing Shawn could do.

"Hey!" he shouted.

Everyone turned to look at him.

"Shawn!" Juliet cried, horror-struck. "Put that gun down!"

It was heavier than he expected it to be—his dad had never let him hold a fully loaded gun before—but Shawn held the pistol steadily aimed directly at the man he had brought.

"What are you doing, Shawn?" Gus despaired.

The stranger only stared at Shawn, an inscrutable expression on his face.

"You're no sheriff!" Shawn exclaimed. "Get away from my friends, you criminal. You're thinking about taking the raft for yourself, aren't you?! I'll bet your name isn't even—um."

"I never gave you a name," the man said.

"Yeah, you never gave it to me because you're a criminal!" Shawn aimed a kick at the paper he'd looked at.

"Shawn, what are you talking about?" Juliet demanded.

Still holding the gun, Shawn knelt and picked up the poster again, then held it up for all to see:

 **WANTED**

 **DEAD OR ALIVE**

 **Carlton J. Lassiter for the murder of Ernesto Chavez**

A badly-sketched but recognizable portrait of the stranger Shawn had discovered in the woods followed the text.

Juliet and Gus immediately looked subdued, especially in such close proximity to a murderer. The man let out a short, frustrated sigh.

"I'm being framed," he said curtly. "I didn't murder anyone. My coworker did it."

The children were dubious.

"How can I know you're telling the truth, Lassie?" Shawn asked.

"You can't," he shrugged. "And it's Lassi _ter_."

Juliet narrowed her eyes at him. "And you were going to take our raft?"

Lassiter opened his mouth to deny it, but then hesitated, and looked ashamed. "I was," he admitted. "But that was when I thought you were traveling with adults. I'm not going to take your transportation. All I'm trying to do is get you unstuck. Honest."

Shawn lowered the gun and glanced at the poster. "Who's Ernesto Chay-veez?"

"Chavez was a criminal. He was going to be a spy for the law, but then he got shot in the jail. Everyone thinks it was me, but it wasn't."

"Everyone?"

"Everyone."

"Well, I believe you, Lassie," Shawn told him.

"Shawn!" Gus and Juliet hissed.

"Thank you," Lassiter rolled his eyes. "And it's not Lassie, it's _Lassiter_."

"How come you're being framed?" Juliet asked.

Lassiter merely shrugged again. "I just know that I didn't do it, and Drimmer did."

"Your coworker's a drummer?" Gus frowned.

"No, his name is Drimmer."

"Dreamer?"

" _Drimmer._ "

"Stop saying that," Shawn whined. "You're making me hungry 'cause it sounds like 'dinner'."

"It sounds nothing like dinner, Shawn," Gus disagreed.

"Yeah it does, Gus. Listen. _Dinner_."

"No, he's saying _Drimmer_."

"Exactly!"

"Shawn, no, you have to _listen_."

"Boys!" Juliet exclaimed, shutting them up. "Well, can't you talk to somebody about being framed?" she addressed Lassiter. "The judge? Or can you telegram the next town and ask for the sheriff there to come?"

"Not when there's an angry mob on my heels," Lassiter answered blandly. "But enough of this. I can take care of myself. Let me get your raft unstuck—or you can try going to town to get someone more trustworthy."

"I trust you," Shawn voted from the bank, raising his hand.

"Would you—stop waving that around!" Lassiter barked at him. "Put my gun down before you hurt someone."

Shawn rolled his eyes, but carelessly dropped the pistol back into the pile of the ex-sheriff's things.

"Will they put you in jail if they catch you?" Juliet asked.

"Undoubtedly."

"But what about a fair trial?"

Lassiter shrugged. "I have no evidence that I didn't do it," he said. "And none that Drimmer did. Listen—don't worry about it. I think if I push the raft this way, it'll…" When no one stopped him, the man cautiously took hold of the watercraft again and twisted it sharply. There was a muffled cracking sound, then the raft began to drift away. Lassiter dug his heels into the silt and held it at bay to prevent it from running up against the same sawyer. He spoke over his shoulder: "You'll have to swim out here, kid. I'll push you out into the middle."

After a moment, Shawn splashed out awkwardly, Lassiter's things bundled on his scrawny shoulder. He passed them aboard when he reached the vessel, treading water, then allowed Gus and Juliet to drag him out of the water. Lassiter scowled, seeing that Shawn had taken the liberty of stealing his things.

"You must be out of your damn mind if you think I'm going to let you take those guns, mister," he growled. "And what are you going to do with shoes way too big for any of you?"

"Push us out," Shawn said. "Is that your friend?"

Lassiter followed Shawn's gaze back toward the bank, where in the trees he saw a familiar figure. "Crap!"

"Hurry and push us out," Shawn urged him.

Lassiter did, moving into deeper water. The current grew swifter, and Juliet manned the rudder, guiding the raft straight. The officer looked back, and saw that Drimmer had moved on, apparently without seeing them.

He felt a tug on his arm and turned back.

"Get on, Lassie."

"Excuse me?" he frowned.

"Come aboard," Shawn answered. "I don't know if you realize this, but I improvise in rescuing innocent people from horrible fates."

Lassiter didn't know whether to feel touched that a trio of children invited him to come with them, wherever they were going. He debated for a moment: this was likely the only route for his getaway that would not require stealing. Shawn was still looking at him expectantly, as was Juliet. The slave boy looked a little suspicious—and that was all right with Lassiter. Suspicion was a good trait.

"I think you mean 'specialize,' Shawn," Gus informed him, without taking his eyes off of the newcomer.

"I've heard it both ways."

"No, you haven't."

"Gus, don't be this crevice in my arm."

Lassiter rolled his eyes and hoisted himself up, already aware that he was definitely going to regret ever running across these children.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Lassiter," Juliet said kindly. "Glad to have someone who can hold a decent conversation…You _can_ hold a decent conversation, can't you?"

"My wife doesn't think so," Lassiter responded. _But my mistress does…_

"I guess we'll find out."

"Guess so."

…

When the sun began to set, Juliet managed to convince her travel companions that they could safely go ashore for the night. There were plenty of trees to conceal them, if need be, but she would very much like a hot meal, and be able to lie down without the danger of rolling off into the river. The boys at length agreed, and the raft was docked.

They begged Lassiter to regale them with action-packed heroic stories about his days as an officer of the law until he relented, but not without irritable grumbling ("I don't know how old you think I am. I've only been on the force for two years."). He told them, proudly, about the time he dueled an illegal gold miner named Pete; the time he'd had a shootout in the saloon with a robber, who hightailed it out of there, after which they continued the birthday party that had been interrupted; the time he'd discovered a dead body, and its murderer, all on his own; and, finally, the story of how he arrested Chavez, the most wanted criminal in the state of Colorado.

Then, after dinner, they spread out their jackets and blankets and went to sleep, their feet pointed towards the dying fire. Shawn was woken in the dead of night by his need to relieve himself. He sleepily prodded Gus, who muttered something and rolled over with a soft snore.

"Gus," Shawn whispered, poking his ribs. "Gus, I have to pee."

"Then go," Gus responded drowsily, rolling over again into a more comfortable position. "I don't gotta hold your hand…"

"But you should get up and pee, too," Shawn said. "Then you won't have to in the morning."

"Ask Juliet to take you if you're a scaredy-cat."

"I'm not scared!"

"Then _go_."

Shawn scowled, and peered into the dark shadows between the trees. He half imagined a pair of cunning, malicious eyes leering at him. He shuddered, and considered waking Juliet anyway—but then decided against it. She was sleeping too peacefully. Shawn glanced at Lassiter. Considered. Rejected—he was holding one of his pistols at the ready, the paranoid jerk.

Defeated, Shawn crawled away from the soft warmth of the embers and into the darkness of the trees. He stood and looked for a good place to relieve himself. It couldn't be too near the campsite, nor did he want to pee on an unsuspecting squirrel or frog, nor did he want to be caught off guard by a wild boar or something. He found a nice, wide oak and stepped behind it. If he moved left or right, he was able to clearly see the red glow where his friends slept, so it was impossible for him to get lost.

He untucked himself and let loose, letting out a long sigh. (Shawn didn't really know why he did, except that he always heard his dad do that in the mornings when he peed.) When his bladder was emptied, Shawn fixed his pants—and froze in sheer terror when he heard a twig snap behind him.

 _Don't scream,_ said an inward voice that sounded suspiciously like his dad's. _Don't move. Whatever it is might move along without bothering you._

But the thing moved closer, and Shawn felt his impending doom oncoming. He _knew_ he shouldn't have come alone!

"Kid?"

Shawn suddenly felt weak in the knees with relief. It wasn't a monster, but a man. He turned and saw him, and the stranger lifted the shutter on his lantern, illuminating them.

"Where are your parents?" he asked.

Shawn pointed back towards the campsite. "I just had to pee," he explained.

"Ah, okay," said the stranger, smiling amiably. "You surprised me. For a second I thought you were a ghost or something…"

"Ghosts aren't real," Shawn informed him.

"No? Well, how do you explain the haunted steamer down there?" The man pointed his lantern, but revealed nothing but more forest.

"What steamer?"

"You're not from around here, are you?" the man smiled.

"Nope. Just passing through, mister. I'm going to the east coast so I can catch a boat to France."

"France, huh?"

"Uh-huh."

"What's in France?"

"King Looey. He invited me to his castle for tea. I don't really like tea, though."

"Really."

"Uh-huh. Do you think they have pineapples in France?"

During the conversation, the stranger had moved closer as though to get a better look at Shawn, and continually glanced up towards the still-glowing fire several yards away. "I guess so," he answered absently, when Shawn repeated his question. "But you're not going to France, kid."

Shawn was startled, but not alarmed. Apparently he saw through the lie. He opened his mouth to respond, but was cut short by a harsh blow to the face. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

…

"Lassiter, wake up."

His eyes flew open at the same moment he lifted his weapon. Gus flinched back warily, but didn't run. The sudden movement roused Juliet as well, who rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She groaned, realizing that it was only dawn.

"What?" Lassiter snapped, without quite meaning to.

"I can't find Shawn," Gus said. "He left this note."

"Note?" the man grumbled. "What's it say?"

"I don't know," the slave answered. "I can't read."

Lassiter let out a short sigh and snatched the slip of paper, which he realized was his wanted poster—how had Shawn dug it out of Lassiter's pocket? He forgot that quickly enough when he realized that the handwriting was not that of a child's.

"Come to SS Marianna or he dies," he read.

Gus looked confused. "Why would Shawn write that? What's SS Marianna?"

"Shawn didn't write it," Lassiter said, jumping up and packing things onto the raft. "And the SS Marianna is the old steamboat wreck downstream."

"What's going on?" Juliet asked.

"Stay here," Lassiter barked, splashing into the chilly water and shoving off.

Gus and Juliet protested loudly, but the man paid them no heed, and was soon washed away by the current, which was far too cold for the young ones to brave swimming. They stood in contemplative, worried silence for a few minutes. Then, with a mutual glance, they started walking briskly downstream.

…

Shawn gingerly touched his bruised cheek, feeling quite miserable. The sun had started to rise, peeking in through the single porthole Drimmer had cleaned of its grime so as to give himself a good view of the river. Shawn didn't know exactly where he was; he'd woken up in an uncomfortable position on a dirty and cold floor. He knew enough to recognize that he was on a boat, probably the captain's cabin, though it was old and disused. The floor was slanted at nearly a 45-degree angle (Shawn knew nothing of geometry, but his dad did teach him how to adjust his arm to aim a gun); most of the objects in the room—chairs, papers, rat droppings, those sorts of things—were covered in a layer of dust, and had mostly gravitated towards the lowest wall, where Shawn was; knife-carved messages and names covered all four walls; and there was a musty smell that tickled Shawn's nose almost unbearably.

Worst of all, Drimmer wouldn't let Shawn talk.

He shifted on the cushion, readjusting his shirt to cover as much of his bare legs as possible—oh, was it mentioned that Shawn was no longer wearing his pants? The boy had, unfortunately, been afflicted with a terrible fear upon waking. The first thing Drimmer had done was shove the barrel of his pistol in Shawn's face, growling threateningly.

Shawn, of course, at once saw that the gun was loaded, and the man's finger was on the trigger, twitching almost imperceptibly. The threat was _real_.

Terror froze Shawn's blood and heated his skin; his mind whirred to a stop like a broken watch, its second hand ticking away the same second again and again— _he's gonna shoot me, he's gonna shoot me, he's gonna shoot me—_ and the ocean roared deafeningly in his ears so that he couldn't hear what Drimmer was saying, but he understood all the same: "Not a single sound, or I'll blow your brains out, boy."

So Shawn nodded shakily, breath caught in his throat. Drimmer moved away, and wrinkled his nose in disgust as he chanced to look downwards. The poor sheriff's son felt shame as the faculty of sense returned to him. Though he had relieved himself only a few hours before, he had drunk a lot of water the previous day, and his bladder had taken the opportunity to release itself while Shawn was understandably preoccupied with other more pressing matters—such as a loaded gun in his face.

While Drimmer had returned to his watch at the window, Shawn quietly divested himself of the wet trousers, glad that his shirt was extra-large and thus more concealing. Being found without pants, he reasoned, was far less embarrassing than being found in wet ones. His captor had glanced back at the noise, but only leered nastily at him.

So there Shawn was, half-naked and trapped on a wreck with a crazy man.

It occurred to the boy that Drimmer had left some sort of ransom, perhaps to entice Lassie to come after them. But Shawn, though he knew at heart Lassie was (probably) a good man, was unsure of whether he would come. Lassiter owed him nothing, and there was no guarantee that Gus or Juliet would be able to rally him into action, or even that they would attempt to do so. He was sure that Gus would be okay as long as he stayed with them, but at the same time Shawn did not want to be left behind, never mind that Gus would be in danger just waiting for his return.

If he were able to return.

The longer Shawn suffered in silence the less hope he had. He was beginning to think that he would have to save himself, even though he wasn't wearing pants and Drimmer had a huge loaded pistol. Shawn shrank from the very idea of it. For all his independence and bravery in the face of danger, those were matters which he often was able to talk himself out of, or at least had a chance of escape or distraction. Drimmer appeared to have a one-track mind and a low tolerance for what his father would call shenanigans.

He wracked his brain for a good idea, but without Gus to bounce them off or shoot them down, Shawn had nothing. He didn't dare try anything.

The miserableness continued.

Shawn had counted all the spots on the ceiling twice before Drimmer made any kind of significant movement. He glanced over warily and saw that the man was smirking, which wasn't unusual for him, but Shawn could tell that he had seen something out of the window. "Come here," he ordered curtly, gesturing with the weapon.

The child hesitated only for a moment, considering whether his pants might be dry enough to wear now and whether Drimmer would let him put them on—but if the former were true, Drimmer was too impatient to allow its execution. So Shawn nervously went to Drimmer, who grasped him roughly by the back of the shirt and forced him onto his knees. With the way the man held him, Shawn would have no chance at escaping unless he lost the shirt, which would leave him naked and afraid, which was far worse than being one or the other.

But it soon became apparent that the reason for Drimmer's insistence on the position was so that Shawn could be in plain sight, and so that he (the bad guy) would have the leverage to hold the gun easily to his head.

A shadow appeared in the hall before them, but ducked out of sight again quickly. Its owner could not help it, for the sun was nearly overhead then, and the heavens cared not for stealth tactics.

"Welcome to the show, Lassiter!" Drimmer boomed.

The shadow slowly reappeared, and to Shawn's relief he saw that it _was_ Lassie, come to rescue him! He wondered if he'd brought Gus and Jules along, too.

"Let the boy go, Drimmer," Lassiter growled. The policeman was slowly edging down the slanted deck, his own pistol trained professionally at his former coworker.

"I'd be careful with that," was his cheery response. "Just one slip of the finger could have dire consequences for some people." Shawn shuddered as he felt the hard barrel of the gun pressed more forcefully into his skull. He leaned away from it, but Drimmer arrested the movement with a sharp jerk of the shirt, which drew Lassiter's glance downwards.

The man's gaze hardened even more, ears turning red. "You bastard, Drimmer."

Shawn knew that he had seen him _sans culottes._ He felt his own face heat up, but there wasn't anything he could do to cover himself up that wouldn't result in some form of rebuke from his captor. Shawn tried to blink back his tears, but his eyes betrayed him and a few slipped out. Once that happened the floodgates were opened once more, and Shawn couldn't help himself.

"Please let us go!" he cried pitifully. "We were leaving anyway, so no one will know anything! We'll never come back ever again, and we'll never tell— _oww_!" Shawn clutched his head as blinding pain lanced across his skull. Drimmer had struck him with the butt of the pistol. Shawn choked back his sobs and stayed as quiet and still as he could, trembling and white-faced.

Meanwhile, Lassiter had been compelled to set down his own gun and kick it away. It clattered noisily across the cabin. His fierce expression was not tempered by Drimmer's almost serene one. Ideas raced through his head, discarded as quickly as they came—nothing he could do would guarantee the safety of Shawn, who now had a thin stream of blood trickling along the side of his pale, bruised face. Lassiter had been sickened by Drimmer before for the fact that he could kill a man and frame a coworker, but now—kidnapping and assaulting a mere boy, only for his brief association with Lassiter? And the implications of the missing pants made his blood boil in his veins. Unforgiveable.

"I'm unarmed," Lassiter said. "You can do whatever you want with me, Drimmer. Just let the kid go. He can take the raft, and he'll never tell anybody what happened here, and never come back. He doesn't deserve this. He's just a kid."

Shawn, for his part, was too busy fighting the urge to vomit to pay any attention to the men standing above him. He scrubbed the ticklish blood from his jawline with his sleeve, eyes squeezed shut.

Drimmer only smiled eerily. "I'm sure those are the sorts of words the newspapers will print when they recreate the story."

Lassiter narrowed his eyes dangerously and clenched his fists at his sides.

Gradually, Shawn was regaining some measure of control over himself. His sense of hearing returned as the ringing dissipated. Drimmer was saying, "…had your way with him, killed him, then committed suicide. And poor Drimmer was too late to save him. He held the dying boy in his arms—"

Shawn scrambled to steady his feet beneath him as Drimmer hauled him up by the shirt, still holding one hand to his aching head. The barrel found its way to the fleshy underside of his chin, forcing Shawn to tip his head far back enough to stare up at Drimmer.

"Stop," Lassiter uttered, panic finally appearing in him.

Drimmer ignored him. "And his _last words_ ," he smiled. Shawn frantically tried to pull Drimmer's hand away. But his own shaking hands were slick with sweat and blood, and his efforts were to no avail.

"Don't shoot me," Shawn whimpered, writhing in Drimmer's too-tight hold. His heart hammered painfully in his chest. "Don't shoot me, don't shoot me!"

" _Don't do it_!" Lassiter yelled.

"His last words," Drimmer continued, "were 'don't shoot me.' Poor thing."

Shawn squeezed his eyes shut again. " _Dad_!" he screamed. It made perfect sense for him, at that intense moment, to call for his father—because when he needed him most, he always turned up: when he got lost in the woods; when a bully had locked him in the school outhouse after everyone had gone home; when Shawn had been awfully sick and his mother was away; when Shawn had fallen from a tree and hurt his leg; when he had nightmares after reading Polidori's _The Vampyr._ Shawn fully expected his father to come barreling down the deck, shotgun fully loaded.

His wish was answered—

In a way.

It was not his father who tackled Drimmer, but Lassiter who took the snowball's-chance-in-hell lunge at the man, wrestling for the weapon. It discharged somewhere over Shawn's head, the deafening _CRACK_ of gunfire renewing the ringing in Shawn's ears. But the boy had enough sense to duck and get out of the way as the men fought over possession of the pistol, which went off once more in the struggle, leaving another bullet embedded in the ceiling.

Shawn took a moment to inventory himself: limbs, good; head, attached; pants, still gone; shirt, ripped, but fixable; Lassiter, losing.

Somehow Drimmer had gotten the upper hand—maybe it was the fact that he was bigger than Lassiter. In any case, the dark-haired hero had been pinned to the floor beneath Drimmer, who was still attempting to aim the gun properly enough to inflict a mortal injury. Neither were looking at Shawn, and since there was no one else around, it was up to the kid to help his friend.

He glanced around the destitute room, searching for some kind of makeshift projectile or a club—and spotted Lassiter's relinquished gun. It was on the other side of the room, past the struggle. Shawn shifted, preparing himself to make a run for it, but instantly went back into a cowering position as another bullet ricocheted off the floor not too far from him.

It would be easier to go through the door and escape. He was closer. And Lassiter did say that the raft was out there. He could go back to town and get help. Grown-ups were more suited to this kind of thing, anyway.

Shawn shook his head, and slid towards the far wall, the lowest part of the room. He could sneak behind the men if he was quick enough about it. The boy slinked by, narrowly dodging a flailing leg as Lassiter attempted to dislodge his adversary.

His fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the gun, but once he had it he was unsure of what to do. He could aim it at Drimmer, but with the way they were rolling around he didn't want to take the chance of hitting Lassiter. Confounded, Shawn sat back and watched for an opening.

It came when Lassiter, receiving an elbow to the cheek, was forced to turn his head. He saw Shawn, and, more importantly, his pistol. With renewed vigor, Lassiter grasped the object of their struggle and immobilized it as best he could, while at the same time stretching his hand out towards Shawn, who immediately understood.

He slid the weapon across the floor, and Lassiter caught it gracefully, fitting his trigger finger into position as he raised it. Drimmer reacted too late. Lassiter aimed and fired.

Drimmer fell with a groan.

Lassiter pushed himself up, casting his eyes about for a restraining mechanism.

Relief flooded Shawn.

It was over. But there was no time to celebrate, as a sudden commotion broke out above them. Several gun-wielding men burst into the room, leaning backwards slightly to battle the slanted floor.

"Freeze!" a mustachioed man yelled, aiming.

Lassiter obeyed, still kneeling on the now unconscious Drimmer's kidney. He dropped the pistol as ordered and raised his hands.

"You don't understand," he said calmly, though Shawn could see the muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Don't move!" the policeman said, edging cautiously forward. Two men flanked him, though they were not law enforcement, but merely volunteers from town. "I don't want to have to hurt you, Lassiter."

"Drimmer is the murderer," Lassiter said. He shifted, eliciting a quiet moan from the prostrate, bleeding man beneath him.

"I said don't move!" The officer's trigger finger twitched nervously.

Shawn put himself between Lassiter and the newcomers. He turned his back to them and wrapped his arms around Lassiter's broad shoulders, ignoring his hissed, "Move back, kid." He could feel the man's heart pounding furiously. Lassiter was scared.

"Lassie saved me!" Shawn announced. "You're dumb if you think Lassie shot Chay-veez. He only shot Dinner, but that was because Dinner was trying to shoot me." Shawn prodded said assailant with his knee. "You can ask Gus and Jules, if you don't believe me!"

The policeman and his lackeys exchanged a glance, then slowly lowered their weapons. "Gus and Jules?" repeated the head honcho. "You're talking about that young lady and the slave who came running into town?"

Shawn nodded vigorously, then grimaced as a dizzying pain spell lanced through his skull. He put a hand back onto the still-trickling wound. Lassiter winced sympathetically, but remained in his position of surrender in case the apprehenders decided he were still dangerous.

But the policeman seemed satisfied. He ordered his followers to arrest Drimmer, and apologized profusely to Lassiter, who shrugged it off. Shawn went in search of his trousers while the men pretended not to see, though the lanky former-outlaw's brow was pinched with troubled thoughts. Once everything was settled in the cabin, they clambered noisily back up to the deck, Drimmer being dragged half-unconscious at the rear of the party. Shawn shouldered past the group and ran ahead into the sunlight, the dappled reflections of it on the river surface dazzling him and piercing painfully into his skull. But he ignored the pain in favor of taking a deep breath of fresh air, reveling at being alive.

"…aaaawwwwwnnnn…!" a voice echoed.

Shawn jumped up onto the rusted railing of the boat and shaded his face so he could look out across the water. He spotted two figures jumping on the far bank, waving their arms. He grinned. "Guuuuuuusss! Juuuuuulesss!"

"…aaaawwwwnnn…!"

He leaned back, craning his neck to look back at Lassiter, who was just emerging from the cabin after having gone back for his pistol. "Lassie! Look, Gus and Jules came to rescue us!" Shawn pointed.

Lassiter squinted in that direction and spotted them. He awkwardly raised a hand in acknowledgment when they yelled his name, too. "Well," he cleared his throat. "I'm ready to get off this damned boat if you are, kid."

Shawn stepped down from the railing. "You know that's right," he replied solemnly.

…

"I'm glad Carlton got his job back," Juliet said, patting her bonnet to check for stray hairs. Gus and Shawn were on either side of her, leaning precariously over the railing of the steamboat to watch the water churning against the sleek metal sides. She continued, as though speaking to herself, "I think it was very nice of him to pay our way onto here."

"Well," Gus said, "it is the least he could do after almost getting Shawn killed. And losing our raft."

Shawn touched the gauze wound tightly around his head. The bleeding had stopped hours ago, but the pressure felt nice—kept the headache at bay. He was still sore about the loss of the raft, too. Lassiter had neglected to anchor the craft strongly enough, so it had floated away. Luckily, the policeman took them across in his canoe and then went back for Drimmer.

"As I remember it," Juliet said primly, "it was Declan's raft."

"As I remember it," Shawn piped up finally, "Declan was going to sell Gus down the river—literally!"

She blushed. "He changed his mind…"

"After I beat him up!"

"You beat up Declan?" Gus asked. "Shawn, you know how your parents feel—uh," he glanced at Juliet, who frowned in confusion, "uh, you know how your parents _felt_ about fighting," he finished.

Juliet's expression smoothed over with understanding. She wisely decided not to comment, and looked out at the scenery. The boys shared a relieved glance behind her back. They had both nearly forgotten that Shawn had told her his parents were dead.

"There you are," said a gruff voice behind them.

The children turned to find Lassiter standing behind them, carrying a bag. Gus sniffed the air and swallowed as his salivation glands kicked into gear, so Shawn knew whatever was in the sack was definitely delicious.

"Gus," Shawn whispered. "I think Lassie's rich."

"Me, too," Gus agreed. "How can he afford so much stuff? Boat tickets, food, new clothes, a vacation…"

"My dad never took us on vacation!"

"You know that's right."

Meanwhile, Lassiter and Juliet had come to the agreement that they would take their lunch on the deck. It was a very nice day for a ride, and the policeman was glad to be able to take some time to relax after the ordeal—though his official reason for the short leave was to watch over Shawn, Gus, and Juliet. If anyone needed adult supervision, it was the boys. Besides, Lassiter had been thinking of going up to the Free States, anyway.

(Shawn was sure his reasons had more to do with them being best friends now. And also because Lassiter owes them his life, but semantics.)

"Ooh, pie!" Shawn gasped, launching himself forward as Juliet began to unpack the bag.

Lassiter rolled his eyes as the sheriff's son dug a spoon into the pastry. "Why don't you eat a sandwich first?" he said, sliding the tin out of reach.

Shawn pouted. "But…but the pie, Lassie! Gus, tell him that—Gus, come over here!"

Gus, who had remained standing back from the table, edged forward, hands clasped behind his back.

"Gus, tell Lassie that if we don't eat the pie while it's piping hot, it's just not _pie_ anymore. Pie stands for piping-hot-not icy-cold eaty-thing."

The slave gave him a dubious look. "No, it doesn't, Shawn."

"Whose side are you on?" Shawn scowled. "Besides, I have a big bump on my head, so I think I deserve some pie."

He turned back to Lassiter, but the vacationing sheriff only pushed a half of cold turkey sandwich into the boy's hand. "Lunch first, and then dessert," he said firmly. Lassiter held the other half out to Gus, who looked surprised at the gesture. The sheriff looked marginally surprised himself, then his usual annoyance crossed his face. "Well, come sit down. Don't hover like a vulture."

Gus, who disliked vultures on principle, immediately stepped forward and sat down beside Shawn. He accepted the sandwich and stared at the table uncomfortably as he ate. Shawn had by that time already wolfed down his half, and was looking hungrily at Gus'. Lassiter and Juliet also shared a sandwich, and were having a discussion about how the weather affected a fired musket round, of all things. Her growing up in a household full of boys meant she learned those things by association, Shawn guessed.

He waited impatiently for his companions to finish their meals, but they were taking their sweet time with it. And the pie was getting cold. With a sigh, Shawn ambled back to the railing to watch the churning water again. There was nothing else to do, really. When they had the raft, at least Shawn could swim alongside to cool off.

Shawn started as the horn blared, and leaned out to see what was happening. A skiff glided out of the way of the steamboat, the driver waving at the passengers as they passed. The boy shuddered to remember the night of the accident, when he and Gus had both nearly died. He glanced up towards the cabin, and saw the dark silhouette of the captain through the window.

 _Maybe_ …

Shooting a discreet glance back towards the group, who were still immersed in their table talk, Shawn inched towards the metal steps that led up to the pilothouse. Gus looked around for him, and nearly became alarmed. Shawn quickly got his attention and motioned him over. Warily, Gus came, using his stealthy "jackal switch" maneuver. He licked the last crumbs of sandwich from his fingertips, giving his friend a questioning expression.

Shawn grinned. He snuck up the steps, ignoring Gus' whisper-screams behind him to come back. As he had already determined would happen, Gus reluctantly followed.

Two pairs of eyes slowly appeared over the lower sill of the pilothouse window, peering into the cramped quarters. A uniformed man was standing at the helm, keeping the vessel straight down the middle of the river. He occasionally checked the numerous dials and needles on the dash, but otherwise was largely preoccupied with reading a letter. Squinting, Shawn was better able to make out that it was written in expert cursive, which he was unable to read from his distance.

"What are we doing here, Shawn?" Gus whispered.

"He might let us drive the boat."

"Make no mistake, Shawn. He won't let a kid drive the boat."

"You can't possibly know that, Gus."

"It's common sense, Shawn!"

"Gus, don't be the one itchy spot on my back I can't reach…Will you scratch my back?"

"Shawn, we're not gonna drive the boat."

"Wait, look," Shawn said, attention diverted back to the captain, who was stepping out. "He's leaving."

"But who's gonna drive the boat?! You're just a kid, Shawn."

But Shawn was already moving, slipping around the corner to the door on the other side. A quick glance in either direction proved that they were alone, and that the steamboat had been left to its own devices. It was a good thing Shawn was there, otherwise something bad could happen—an iceberg could come out of nowhere! The risk of that was just too great to ignore.

"Shawn!" Gus stomped his foot, huddling just outside the threshold.

The sheriff's son was at the wheel, standing on tiptoes to see through the front window. "Relax, Gus. I know what I'm doing."

"Uh, last time I checked, you've never even been on a steamboat before this week."

"How hard could it be?" Shawn shrugged. "All we have to do is keep it straight down the middle." He grasped the wheel and held it straight. "See?"

Gus glared at him, then looked over his shoulder, shifting nervously. "The captain might be back any minute."

"Good. Someone ought to tell him that he shouldn't leave big ships unpretended."

"You mean unattended."

"I've heard it both ways."

"No, you haven't, Shawn."

Shawn turned to argue semantics, inadvertently shifting the wheel as he did so. Neither of the boys noticed. Their bickering voices overlapped, each of them growing in volume as they attempted to make the other hear him.

"What in heavens," drawled a man, suddenly appearing in the doorway.

Gus squeaked and stumbled inside to stand behind Shawn, who had snapped to attention at the wheel and pretended innocence.

The captain stared at them, one eyebrow cocked. But he did not look angry—rather bemused.

"Aye, aye, Cap'n!" Shawn shouted, pressing a finger in salute against the bandages wrapped around his head.

"I did not give you an order," the captain said in his English accent, "yet. Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"You don't remember telling me to take over for you?" Shawn asked, feigning surprise.

"I have absolutely no idea who you are." He had a vaguely amused expression.

"I'm Shawn, and this is my partner, Nick Nack. Who're you?"

"Despereaux," he responded. "Pierre Despereaux. Captain Pierre Despereaux."

"Is that a French name?"

" _Oui_."

"We who?"

"No, _oui_ is French for yes."  
"That doesn't make any sense."

"Oh, but it does, Shawn." He squinted out of the window and frowned. "Did you move the wheel?"

"Nope."

"Did Nick Nack move the wheel?"

Gus frantically shook his head, eyes wide.

"Nope," Shawn popped his lips. "But even if we did, you have no way of knowing because you abandoned ship!"

"I stepped out to give orders to the crew. I was gone for less than two minutes."

"Tell it to the judge!"

"Where _are_ your parents?"

"That's not a very nice question," Shawn answered. "What if my parents are dead?"

"Are they?"

"Yup."

"Hmm. My condolences. Well, you must be here with _someone._ "

"Of course."

Captain Despereaux paused, apparently waiting to hear the name of Shawn's guardian. But the child was not forthcoming, too intent on watching the river. Despereaux glanced out of the window as well, his frown deepening.

"Stand aside, Shawn. I will take the wheel now."

"I've got it handled."

Gus hissed in Shawn's ear, but he waved him off.

"Now, Shawn," Despereaux cajoled.

"Don't worry, Captain. I'm a master at this."

With a sigh, Despereaux came forward and made an attempt to forcibly remove Shawn. But the kid clung determinedly to the implement, loudly insisting that he was a qualified steamboat navigator.

"I'll fight you!" Shawn threatened.

"You pose absolutely no threat to me whatsoever," Despereaux grunted, at last tearing Shawn away and setting him aside. He swept his blond hair back as he straightened. "Now then." He faced forward and placed his hands on the wheel—

Just in time to be slammed into as the steamboat came to a crashing halt against the shallows.

Alarmed shouts erupted outside as Despereaux calmly reached over and shut off the boiler.

"See," Shawn muttered, pushing himself up from the floor and dusting his shirt off. "This is why _I_ should drive."

…

"I can't believe you got us kicked off the boat, Shawn." Gus scowled.

"Me?" Shawn gaped. "The boat was totally fine! Just a few scratches. Nothing a little whitewash won't fix."

"I said, no talking!" Lassiter snapped, adjusting the bag on his shoulder.

The group continued walking along the riverbank in silence. The next town wasn't too far, and hopefully news of Shawn's near-disastrous escapade hadn't spread already.

Getting to the Free States was taking a lot longer than Shawn had anticipated.

 **A/N:** SO SORRY that it took so long to get this out. College really took a lot out of me. But now I'm out for the summer, so the last update should come a lot quicker. Yes, there will be one more because the story is turning out a lot longer than anticipated.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"I'm _tired_ ," Shawn complained for the hundredth time, dragging his feet.

"Shawn," Juliet sighed wearily, "please. Everyone is tired."

"But Lassie said that we would be at the next town hours ago!"

"I _said,_ " Lassiter growled, "that we would be in the next town _in_ a few hours _a few hours ago._ "

"Exactly!" Shawn said.

Juliet and Gus both rolled their eyes. They had formed a sort of camaraderie throughout the constant bickering of the other two. When Shawn and Gus argued, it was one thing, but Lassiter was a grown man, after all.

"You know," Shawn sniffed, "you should be more tender with a kid who almost died. Be more tender, Lassie!"

" _I'm being tender,_ " was the savage reply.

"Hey," Juliet said, "look. There's a man coming this way. He must have come from town. He'll know how far we have to go."

"We're saved!" Shawn cheered, punching Gus' arm, who winced and only just stopped himself from hitting back. The slave was still wary of Lassiter, a man of the law.

The sheriff's son sprinted ahead, high-kneeing it over the thick grass. He looked utterly ridiculous—but not as ridiculous as Gus, who followed at his heels with his arms practically raised over his head.

"For the love of Mike," Lassiter rolled his eyes.

He and Juliet followed at a much more appropriate pace, him leading the way to trample down the leaves so she had an easier time of it. Not that she needed him to do that, which they were both clear on. Juliet was a strong girl with four older brothers and knew how to take care of herself, so Lassiter didn't have to treat her like a helpless little girl. Yeah, he knew that. Understood. But he was still walking ahead of her because her skirts kept snagging on sticks and stuff.

By the time they caught up with Shawn and Gus, they had already engaged the oncoming young man in conversation.

"Hello," Lassiter greeted cordially, sticking out his hand.

"Hiya," the man responded with a grin, shaking it. "These yours?"

"I'm their supervisor, yes," Lassiter said. "Are you coming from town…?"

"Ryan," the stranger supplied. "Ryan Bainsworth. And yes. You looking to visit…?"

"Lassiter," he nodded. "Carlton Lassiter. Just making sure we're headed the right direction to get there."

Ryan nodded. "Well, it's just through those trees." He pointed into the thicket.

Lassiter drew his brows together, about to point out that it looked little traveled.

"Not a lot of people come this way," Ryan continued. "Most have boats to land at port, and you can keep walking that way if you like. But if you go through here you'll be there a lot faster."

"I see," Lassiter said. "Thank you, Bainsworth. We'll keep following the river, though, so we don't get lost."

"But Lassie!" Shawn whined. "He said it was a shortcut! Do you know what that means?"

"Yes, I know what a shortcut is. But this is unfamiliar territory."

"Lassie, the woods make it shady. It's _hot_ out here."

Ryan shrugged, indicating that it wasn't his problem either way. "Look, if you do decide to follow the river, you should keep an eye out for Sasquatch."

"Uh, Sasquatch?" Gus uttered, eyes widening and darting around as though expecting something to jump at them.

"Oh yeah," Ryan said seriously. "We've got Sasquatch bait set up and everything. It shouldn't be a problem…If you get to town before dark. Hey, maybe I'll see you guys later! I'm going to go check some fishing lines."

With that, he turned and walked away.

Juliet and Lassiter snorted a bit.

"There's no such thing as Sasquatch," Juliet chortled.

"Yeah," Lassiter smirked, but his lips turned down almost immediately when he spotted the boys. They were both huddled by the nearest tree, crouched low and looking warily about them. "Oh, for the love of…There's no such thing as Sasquatch!"

"Really, boys," Juliet shook her head. "Aren't you a little too old to believe in silly fables like this?"

"You're never too old to be careful," Gus piped up wisely. "That's what my mama always says."

"Well, your mother is right," Lassiter conceded. "But in this case, you're applying it to the wrong thing. There's no such thing as Sasquatch."

When the boys did not get up, he rolled his eyes again.

"Here's the plan. I'll go first. If there is a Sasquatch—and there _isn't_ —then he'll come after me, first."

"No, he won't," Shawn said, wrinkling his nose. "He'll go after Jules. Everyone knows that girls can't run as fast, and their meat is tastier. You're going to get Jules killed, Lassie! And then he'll eat Gus!"

Gus turned a shade paler.

"And then he'll eat me!" Shawn continued. "And _then_ , if he's still hungry, he'll eat you, Lassie. But if he's not, he'll take you back to his lair for a midnight snack. He'll turn you into Lassie Jerky!"

"I'm going," Lassiter said flatly. "And if you're not right behind me, you're getting left behind!"

He started off down the riverbank without a glance backwards. Juliet waited for a moment to see if they were going to move, then decided that they probably would if she followed at the man's heels. She shrugged unapologetically at them.

"No, wait!" Shawn cried.

"Come back!" Gus added.

The other two did not stop.

"What do we do, Shawn?" Gus asked.

"We could leave them to die and take the shortcut for ourselves."

"We have no money or food. I thought we needed Lassie for that."

"That is true. We might have to wait for Sasquatch to get them, then steal some Lassie Jerky for the trip."

"Shawn!" Gus pinched his friend, who gasped and winced at the sharp pain.

"Ow!"

"Lassie has guns," Gus stated.

"Oh yeah. Maybe we should go with them—for protection."

"Yeah."

"Let's go."

They bolted from their bad hiding place, running like newborn colts after their friends.

"We're coming!" Shawn hollered. "Wait up! We're coming!"

Lassiter and Juliet shared a victorious glance. The girl paused to wait for them to catch up, but the officer forged ahead.

"You see?" Lassiter said, turning as the boys reached them. He pointed his hand at them. "Sasquatch still hasn't come for us. He's not real!"

"Yes, he is!" Shawn insisted. "He's just waiting for the perfect moment to attack. You should get your pistol out, just in case, Lassie."

Lassiter opened his mouth to respond as he folded his arms, but the quick sound of a _snap_! distracted them. The group stood in silence for a split second before Lassiter began screaming.

The children could only watch in horror as Lassiter, still screaming in agony, began to hop on one foot, lifting his other to reveal the steel trap caught around his ankle. Gus made a choking noise. No one could move even as Lassiter fell to one side, then tumbled down the embankment and into the river with a splash.

He was immediately pulled away by the current.

"Oh my god!" Juliet uttered, at last pulled out of her shock. "Carlton!"

She took off down the bank, struggling with her skirts.

Shawn and Gus shared a look.

"He stepped in the Sasquatch bait," Gus whispered, wide eyed.

"We should probably try to save him," Shawn said back, grimacing.

They hurried after Juliet, who tore her petticoat free from a bramble bush. The trio looked at the water, but Lassiter was nowhere to be seen.

"Where'd he go?" she asked despairingly.

Shawn carefully slid closer to the edge of the water and squinted ahead, but he saw no telltale splashes of a drowning man being weighed down by a bear trap.

"He's gone!" he called back, climbing back up to where his friends stood panting.

"We've got to get to town and get help," Juliet said.

"We should take the shortcut Ryan told us about," Shawn said.

She worried her lower lip, but nodded. "Let's go. And hurry!"

They ran back the way they had come, then veered into the trees in the direction that Ryan had earlier indicated. Shawn cast his eyes about for some kind of trail, but spotted none. They were probably just a little off track, and that wouldn't matter very much as long as they made it to town in time.

Shawn wasn't too worried. If he and Gus could both survive being hit by a steamboat in the middle of the night, surely Carlton could survive in broad daylight. As long as his screams hadn't attracted the Sasquatch…

Yeah, they'd better hurry.

Juliet began to lag, cursing breathlessly about the impracticality of feminine attire. Her skirts were already ripped beyond repair from having to constantly tear herself free from grasping branches, and her blond hair had slipped free from her bonnet.

Shawn and Gus slowed so as not to leave her behind. The former squinted about the trees. Everything looked the same, and there was still no visible trail, except for the one they had forged themselves.

"I think Ryan was lying," he panted. "This isn't a shortcut at all. Can't see any smoke. Trees are getting thicker. No voices. No trail."

"Lyin' Ryan," Gus muttered.

"What's wrong?" Juliet asked, catching up.

"We need to go back," Shawn said. "This is a waste of time! Ryan lied."

"That son of a gun!" she exclaimed, stomping her foot. Juliet scrubbed her sweaty face with a hand, then looked up as determined as ever. "Come on. We'll just have to find him ourselves. There's still time."

They turned on their heels and ran back to the river. Gus figured that at that rate they would never make any headway!

….

The first thing he noticed upon awareness was how cold it was. Carlton Lassiter shivered and drew the rough blanket tighter around himself. His ankle throbbed horribly with each wracking shudder.

What had happened?

He was accused of a crime he hadn't committed—no, wait. That was resolved. Then he was on a steamboat with some kids, but they had to walk the rest of the way to town, only for him to step in a steel trap…His eyes flew open, and he looked around.

A cursory glance around the dimmed room did not reveal any of his self-assumed charges. He quickly assessed his situation. Aloneness in an unfamiliar place was never a good sign, especially when he couldn't remember exactly how he had gotten there.

Energy surged through his limbs, giving Carlton the strength he lacked a moment before to sit up slowly. His head and ankle protested, but he swallowed thickly and forced himself upright. He really was alone, and no one was alerted by the quiet rustling of his movements. Lassiter almost immediately spotted his weapons sitting in a patch of sunlight near the window; they were taken apart, and looked to have been meticulously cleaned. It would only take a few seconds to put them back in order.

He inhaled deeply, then slowly released the breath. All he had to do was cross the room, put his guns together, and find the children.

Easy enough.

Simple.

Watching the door out of the corner of his eye, Lassiter slid out of bed, pushing the heavy blankets that were overheating him aside. One foot down, one more to go. He froze when the floorboards squeaked. When nothing happened, he continued, rolling from heel to toe before placing his other foot down.

Fiery pain lanced up the entire length of his leg. In an instant, Lassiter crashed to the floor in a heap with a strangled yelp.

Blinking dazedly, the last he remembered seeing was the door flying open and a pair of muddy boots approaching.

…

"I see a house up ahead," Shawn panted.

Sure enough, when Gus and Juliet looked closely, they spotted a structure through the trees. If there was someone home, they could find help. There could even be a horse that would be able to transport them to town more quickly.

"Let's go," Juliet said. "I'll go first. You two don't say _anything_."

"But—"

"Just—please, Shawn," she sighed.

"Okay."

Shawn and Gus shared a look, except Shawn looked surprised at his friend's agreeing expression. He pouted, whereas Gus merely shrugged as though to say, "What are you gonna do?"

"It doesn't look like anyone's home," Gus whispered.

Shawn gave the cabin another once-over and realized that the windows were dark, and there was no smoke issuing from the chimney. "Great subversion, Gus."

"I think you mean observation."

"I've heard it both ways."

"No, you haven't."

"Shh!" Juliet hissed.

The boys clamped their lips shut obediently and tramped along after her.

Juliet headed at once for the door, perhaps hoping to find it unlocked, or an occupant going to bed. It was, after all, getting dark outside, and it was not uncommon for people to sleep with the sun. Shawn detoured towards one of the windows, cupping his hands over his eyes to peer inside. His face lit up.

"Lassie!" he cried, banging his fist on the glass so hard that it rattled.

Juliet and Gus jumped, startled by the noise. But they both recovered quickly and shouldered Shawn aside to take a look for themselves. Lying on a cot on the far side of the single-room cabin was a very familiar form: Carlton Lassiter. He was bundled up in numerous thick blankets, his feet propped up on a box at the foot of the bed. He stirred slightly upon hearing the chorus calling his name.

Shawn pushed the door, which was unlocked, open with a bang and skipped over to the officer. "Lassie! You're alive!"

"Hrrrrmmm…"

"Carlton! Are you all right?" Juliet put a hand on his head. "He's burning up."

"Where's the owner of the home?" Gus wondered, looking about.

Lassiter's bloodshot eyes opened independently of one another. His gaze moved blindly for a few seconds before locking first on Shawn, then on Juliet, then on Gus. "What're you doin'?" he slurred.

"How are you feeling?" Juliet asked. "How did you end up here? Where's the person who helped you? Did they go to get a doctor?"

"Been…abducted…"

"Huh?"

Gus stepped in. "He said he was abducted."

"Run…Get out of here…"

"Okay," Gus nodded, turning to leave in a hurry.

"Wait!" Shawn grabbed his arm. "We can't just leave Lassie here to die! The kidnapper will feed his arms and legs to the Sasquatch!"

"But if he catches us, he'll feed us to Sasquatch, too!"

"There's no Sasquatch!" Juliet interrupted before the argument could go any further. "Now, help me get him up. We'll drag him to town if we have to. He needs a doctor."

"Lassie, wake up," Shawn urged him. He hauled him bodily upright, then had to brace himself as the man slumped forward. "Whoa! C'mon, son!"

"Leave me…" Lassiter mumbled into Shawn's shoulder.

"Never!" Shawn grunted, legs trembling under the weight.

Juliet lowered Lassiter's feet to the floor, being mindful of the grotesquely swollen foot. Then she leveraged herself under one of his arms and helped Shawn lift him into a lopsided standing position. Lassiter managed to get his good foot underneath him, but there was no chance of his being able to walk on his own.

"Gus, the door," Juliet motioned with her chin.

He hurried to obey as Juliet and Shawn slowly began to shuffle their charge towards the exit.

"You're doing great, Carlton," Juliet said encouragingly. "We're almost there. We're going to get you help."

"Hrrrrmmmggh."

"That's right, Carlton. Just a bit farther."

Shawn wrinkled his nose. "Ugh, his armpit keeps going into my face. My hair is going to stink!"

"Your hair already stinks, Shawn," Gus told him.

" _Your_ hair stinks," was the muttered reply.

"Boys, focus! Come on, Carlton. Just a few more steps and we'll be out the door."

…

"Are we almost to town?" Shawn panted. He let go of Lassiter's arm for a second to swipe at the sweat tickling his cheek. They kept shuffling forward at a snail pace.

"We're still in sight of the cabin," Gus said, pointing back the way they came. He was standing and watching his friends attempt to drag a semi-conscious, incoherent Lassiter along the thin trail.

"Maybe…Gus," Juliet sighed, "could you grab his legs? Maybe we can carry him like that."

Gus looked dubious, but moved to do as he was told.

"Shawn, you carry him from the middle. I've got his shoulders."

"We're carrying him like a dead person," Shawn commented. "Wait, does this mean we need a blanket?"

"Shawn."

"I got it, Jules."  
Once they were all in position, they hefted the limp body into their arms, adjusting according to the differences in their heights and strengths. Lassiter seemed unaware of their efforts to save him.

"Okay, let's go."

Although the progress was still slow, it was a lot faster this new way than before. Juliet still found it difficult to walk, especially now that she was moving backwards, due to her skirts, which were all ripped up beyond repair. Gus gagged at the smell of blood and feet, turning his face as far as humanly possible.

"I don't think we'll make it before dark," Shawn said.

"It's already dark," Gus corrected. "The sun set behind the trees already."  
"It's twilight."

"Dusk."

"I've heard it both ways."

"I hear that. But there's technically a difference. My dad said—"

"Now is not the time," Juliet said. "Let's just put all of our energy into getting to town. Talking will only slow us down."

They nearly dropped Carlton in fright when a voice barked out behind them: "HEY!"

The children looked back, and to their horror, saw a distant figure emerging from the cabin, toting a musket—which he promptly leveled at them.

"Into the woods!" Shawn cried, pulling his cargo's midsection in that direction.

"Who is he?" Juliet gasped. "Maybe we should talk to him, ask him for—"

 _BOOM!_

A musket round splintered into the trunk of a nearby tree, forcing all of them to drop to the ground for cover. Carlton groaned, but otherwise did not stir.

"I don't think he's trying to help!" Gus whimpered. "What do we do?!"

Shawn crouched behind a thick bush and peered out. Not too far off, the man crashed into the forest in pursuit, but passed them.

"Okay," Shawn whispered. "You guys try and get Lassie to safety. I'll lead him in circles."

"Shawn, no," Juliet said. "It's too dangerous!"

"Trust me, Jules. I know what I'm doing. Ask Gus."

Gus gave him a terrified look.

"Never mind," the sheriff's son amended quickly. "Just trust me."

Before either of his friends could protest again, Shawn darted deeper into the shade, leaving them to rescue Lassiter. Juliet huffed in frustration, but did not call out to him for fear of drawing attention. Instead, she decided that it would be best to keep moving. No sense in sitting like ducks. Gus seemed hesitant to leave, but more hesitant to follow Shawn, especially when in doing so they might both wind up in trouble. And who would go looking for a slave when there was a white boy to be found? So he went with Juliet, praying for Shawn's safety all the while.

In the meantime, Shawn already had the shooter in his sights. The man, who was wearing a wide-brimmed hat that hid his face and a threadbare jacket, was kneeling in the mulch looking for footprints. Shawn didn't know what he thought he might find in such dim lighting—it was even darker under the cover of the trees, though that would work to his own advantage. The man held the gun at a position for optimum capacity. At one detected movement, the stranger could wheel around, aim, and fire—and bam, Shawn would be dead.

A direct altercation may not be the best course of action.

Shawn snuck to the right, away from his friends and the hunter. Once he got far enough off, he would make a noise to attract the danger.

Behind the man, Shawn picked up the longest stick within his reach and rustled a nearby bush. The stalker whipped around and aimed, but did not shoot.

"Who's there?" he demanded in a reedy voice.

Shawn was already running, zig zagging like his father had taught him. Another bullet ricocheted somewhere to the left of him, and pounding footsteps raced after him.

The child sprinted ahead, then ducked and nestled himself into the upraised roots of a large tree. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his panting, then held his breath as he heard his pursuer catch up. The man paused long enough that Shawn's lungs began to burn, but thankfully the stranger moved on without finding him.

Shawn released the air, giddy from lack of oxygen and with relief. He grinned, and ran back the way he had come. The man was going in the opposite direction, and probably would never find them.

In a few moments, he caught sight of Gus and Juliet dragging Lassiter along by the arms. All three of them were sweaty-faced, but the unconscious officer was pale, not flushed.

Gus looked up fearfully as Shawn came crashing out of the trees to help, but his face lit up. "Shawn!"

"Gus! Jules! See? I lost him!" Shawn said proudly. "I told you I could—"

 _BANG!_

Shawn's eyes widened in surprise, as did his friends'. He felt his left shoulder spasm, though he did not know why. He tried to keep his balance as the ground tilted. Juliet and Gus screamed, finally stirring Lassiter, who struggled to open his eyes and respond. Shawn stumbled and nearly took a dive into the dark, churning river, but reared back just in time to fall backwards. As he struck the ground, he landed on his shoulder, and felt a dull burn.

Confused, Shawn looked down, and saw a spot of red paint. Where had it come from? Why did no one tell him his shirt was dirty? He turned to ask Gus these questions, only to see his friend scrambling towards him on his hands and knees, face panicked. His mouth was moving, but Shawn could only hear the water roaring in his ears.

Gus tugged him harshly, forcing him into a sitting position. Shawn's stomach rebelled at the movement, and he tried to pry Gus's vice-like grip from his arm. Over the slave's shoulder, he saw Juliet trying to get Lassiter to wake up. She looked terrified as well.

Both froze suddenly, staring towards the trees.

Shawn tried to turn and look, but blackness was encroaching on his vision, and all he could see was a straw hat fluttering to the ground. Then his neck wouldn't hold his head up anymore, and he decided that then was an excellent time for a nap.

…

"Shawn!" Gus cried, relieved to see him appear from the shadows.

"Gus! Jules!" Shawn grinned. "See? I lost him! I told you I could—"

 _BANG_!

Gus flinched. "Hurry up and get over here, Shawn!"

Shawn didn't respond, but Juliet screamed. Gus' eyes widened as he saw why: Shawn's jerk wasn't a reaction to the sound, but to the musket ball that pierced his shoulder. Time slowed down as Gus and Juliet watched Shawn stumble to the side, right arm lifting and then falling. He tottered near the edge of the embankment. Gus suddenly realized that he might fall in and drown, and made a lunge despite the distance between them.

But Shawn pulled himself back and crashed to the ground with a grunt. Gus scrambled towards him, shouting his friend's name. Juliet alternated between calling Shawn's name and Lassiter's, attempting to wake the both of them up so they could run or hide, though those were no longer options.

"Shawn!" Gus screamed, reaching him. "Get up! Get up!"

A bemused expression crossed Shawn's face as he looked down at the growing blood stain.

Gus grasped at him and hauled him up, hoping to snap him out of his stupor. "Come on! Get up! Get up!"

"Carlton! Wake up! Help us!" Juliet urged behind him.

The man only groaned, though he did make an effort to come back to the world of the living.

All of the screaming suddenly ceased.

Juliet and Gus gaped in terror as a man emerged from the trees, gun in hand. Gus desperately wanted to put himself between Shawn and the stranger, but his muscles wouldn't move. The newcomer reached up and removed his wide-brimmed hat to reveal his own face, which was slack with horror. His eyes shined eerily in the early night moon.

"Oh my god," he whispered. "You're kids. You're just kids."

Shawn slumped forward, and Gus automatically wrapped his arms around him. "Shawn?" he whispered, shaking him a little. "Shawn?"

"I didn't know," the man babbled. "I thought—I thought—I didn't know!"

"You killed him!" Juliet sobbed, fisting Carlton's shirt.

"No, I—" The stranger was spurred into action at the despairing accusation. He knelt beside the boys and gingerly checked Shawn over. "He's still breathing! He's alive. Everything will be fine. It seems to have missed anything vital…"

"Vital?" Gus exclaimed indignantly. "Shawn is vital! You shot him! You—"

"Enough," the man said. "We need to get him some help. Run and fetch the doctor to my cabin, boy."

"I don't know the doctor!"

The stranger waved him off impatiently and scooped Shawn into his arms. "Just follow the river until you get to town. Ask the first person for Dr. Strode—tell him Longmore sent you, and that it is urgent. Go!"

Gus, right sleeve soaked with his friend's blood, scurried to obey.

Juliet glared at Longmore, still making halfhearted attempts to wake the man who had taken it upon himself to escort them.

"I'll take the boy back to my cabin," Longmore explained hurriedly. "Then I'll come back for him!"

The girl seemed torn between following Shawn and staying with Lassiter, but ultimately she stayed. Longmore carried Shawn away.

Meanwhile, Gus tore along the small little path by the river. "Dr. Strode, Dr. Strode, Dr. Strode," he repeated to himself. "Dr. Strode, Dr. Strode, Dr. Strode!"

At last, he careened around a bend and found the first signs of civilization: a very small town, a few windows lit by candles and firelight. In the darkness he didn't see anyone out, but he ran forward, hollering for help.

It garnered the attention he wanted.

A few people appeared from their doorways, lifting lanterns to find where the commotion was.

"Ha! Who's there?" called one.

"Help! We need Dr. Strode! Dr. Strode! Please, help! He's been shot!"

"Dr. Strode's been shot?!" gasped a woman. "Oh, lord! What'll we do?"

"No!" Gus yelled. "A boy has been shot! And we need Dr. Strode to save him! We need to go to Longmore's cabin!"

"Oh, boy," sighed an old man. "Longmore's at it again, is he?"

"Where's the doctor?!" Gus cried impatiently. "Please, we need help now or he'll die!"

"Well, Missy," said a silhouette in a window. "I guess you'll need to go and fetch your father."

A young woman bustled out of the door, her own lantern raised high. "Where are you?" she asked.

Gus jogged forward, chest heaving. "Please hurry!"

"We live just down the road here," said Missy, starting off at a brisk pace. "Papa's probably sleeping."

The slave followed at her heels, clutching the stitch in his side. Townsfolk watched them go, whispering amongst themselves.

As they walked, Missy kept up a conversation. "We've got an old nag who can carry you back faster. How bad is—your master, is he?"

"No, he's my—uh, I mean, yes. Well, he's my master's son who got hurt, miss. But my master is dead, so I guess Shawn is my master now…" He hoped that she couldn't detect his lie—it was evident in his shaky voice and his guilty expression.

She didn't seem to notice. "Where was he shot?"

"By the river, miss."

"No, I mean the wound. Arm? Leg?"

"His shoulder," Gus responded. "There's a lot of blood, miss. I think it went all the way through."

"Do you know how to saddle a horse?"

"Yes, miss."

"Then go into the stable and fetch the nag. Her name is Grace."

"Yes, miss."

"I'll wake Papa and have him get ready. Meet us outside the door."

They went their separate ways.

…

Juliet dipped the rag back into the water bucket and wrung it out. Her lips thinned with worry as she pressed the cloth against Shawn's feverish forehead. Again her eyes darted towards the door. Where was Gus with the doctor?

"Gus…" Shawn whimpered, face pinched with discomfort. "Gus, we gotta—gotta get outta here…"

"Shh," Juliet said, stroking him comfortingly. "It'll be all right. Gus will be back soon, Shawn."

A shiver wracked the boy's frame, and he stirred fretfully in the bundle of blankets. His hazel eyes slivered open, roaming sightlessly around the room.

Juliet carefully peeled back the coverings, grimacing at the sight of crimson blossoming against the makeshift bandage. She tucked the blankets back, adjusted the wet cloth, and went to Carlton, who was reclining on a pallet with his bad foot propped up. She hoped they wouldn't have to amputate, but if the doctor didn't come soon who knew what would need to be done. The teen knelt down beside him and rewet his rag.

The door swung open.

Juliet turned hopefully, but deflated once she saw it was Longmore. He stumbled into the room and noisily deposited an armful of chopped wood by the fireplace.

She absolutely despised him, though she could understand why he had shot: When he found his charge missing and spotted strangers carrying him away, he had automatically assumed the worst. They were too far away for him to see or hear that they were merely children. Spotting Shawn through the trees, he must have taken him for a man kneeling or squatting, and aimed accordingly. But she still hated him for shooting.

They didn't speak much except to make sure the boys were cared for as properly as non-doctors could.

Since Carlton was still unresponsive, Juliet returned to Shawn's side. To her surprise, he glanced at her.

"Shawn!" she whispered. "Can you hear me?"

"Where's my mom?" he slurred.

"Oh, um…Well, she's not here," she said slowly.

"We gotta go to…Free States," he mumbled. "Gus should be free…"

"Okay."

"Mom'll…help…Gotta get 'way from Dad…Bad Dad…"

Juliet frowned. "When you're better we'll get you to your aunt, Shawn."

"Aun…t?" Some lucidity returned to Shawn as he frowned up at the ceiling. "No…going to Mom…in Chicago…"

"But…You said your parents are dead."

"No…Shh…Keep a secret, Gus…Secret…!"

"What's the secret?" Juliet pressed. "Shawn. What is the secret?"

"Can't tell…no one…running away…"

"Running away? From your father?"

"To save him…" Shawn widened his eyes and looked directly at Juliet again. "Dad's gonna kill Gus! Gotta save him…Kill a chicken…to save him…Gotta…gotta…" His eyes fluttered closed as he lost consciousness.

Juliet swallowed thickly.

On the one hand, she was furious. Shawn had lied to her—repeatedly. Even after she showed how trustworthy she was! After all she'd done to help him! She'd left Declan behind to help him get to the aunt that never existed. He'd made her into an accomplice, stealing a slave that was the rightful property of his father, who was still alive.

But on the other hand, Shawn was only doing what he thought was right. Ultimately, what he was doing was to protect his slave—his _friend_. Apparently he thought his mother, who was also alive and living in Chicago, would help them. She thought maybe his mom was an abolitionist, or at least anti-slavery.

In the end, she couldn't stay mad at him. Glancing askance at Longmore, who didn't seem to have heard anything, Juliet decided to keep mum about the issue. From there, she could make a plan about what she was going to do.

"Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeedi-hoooo!"

Juliet started at the noise. Longmore heaved a sigh and moved to open the door—but it crashed back before he reach it.

"Is he okay?!" Gus cried, rushing inside. He immediately spotted Shawn and went to him, staring at his pale face. "Is he breathing?! Shawn! Shawn!"

"Gus!" Juliet said sternly. "I think he'll be okay. Did you bring the doctor?"

As she asked, another figure made an appearance. An older, portly man shouldered his way inside, shown in by Longmore. "Okay," he said perfunctorily, hoisting his big medicine bag. "Where are the corpses?"

"They're not dead!" Juliet exclaimed.

"Oh, right. I meant the injured." The man hastily stuffed a tool into his pocket.

Juliet motioned to Shawn. "Please, Dr. Strode. Look at Shawn first. He's been shot in the chest."

"Please," the doctor said. "Call me Woody. All right. Let's take a look here."

Gus backed out of the way, but stayed close enough to watch. Juliet stepped in as acting nurse, and helped him remove layers of cloth.

Woody let out a low whistle as the bandage was peeled back. "Is the bullet still in there?"

"No, it went through," Juliet responded.

"Hmm, hmm, hmm. And this was a musket ball?"

Longmore nodded shortly.

"What a miraculous hit!" Woody said. "I don't believe it hit anything important, and it went all the way through. Wow! Muskets are terribly inaccurate, especially at a distance. Garth, how in the world did you not kill him? Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Do you have the bullet, still? I'm collecting for—"

Juliet scowled. "Woody, aren't you going to treat him?"

"Well, yes," he said. Woody opened his bag and reached inside, then pulled out a bottle of whiskey. "This may sting a little, kid."  
Gus shuffled nervously. "I don't think he can hear—"

Woody popped the stopper and tipped the bottle in one fluid motion. A hearty helping of brown liquid gushed forth and hit the wound. Shawn jolted, face twisting with anguish. Juliet quickly took hold of his arms as he tried to buck and fend off the onslaught of alcohol. His high-pitched whine escalated into a full, blood-curdling scream.

Lassiter was startled out of his stupor, instinctively reaching for his weapons. "Wha—!"

"It's okay, Shawn!" Juliet raised her voice. "Stop fighting! We're helping you, that's all! Shawn—Gus, get his legs!"

"It burns!" Shawn howled. "Dad! Dad! It burns! Mom!"

"Ride it out, kid," Woody said calmly, patting Shawn's hair. He discreetly wiped the sweat residue onto his pants.

Lassiter, now sitting up, grasped at his ankle, wincing. He grimaced with sympathy as he came to realize that the doctor had flushed Shawn's wound with alcohol. Then he frowned as he couldn't remember how the child had been wounded in the first place.

"What the hell happened?" he demanded.

"He got shot," Gus said. "While we were trying to rescue you."

"What?"

"We found you here and you said you were kidnapped so we picked you up and carried you away to rescue you," Gus rambled, taking to stroking Shawn's legs through the blanket as his pain spasms finally ended. "But then a man with a musket chased us, and Shawn led him on a wild goose chase in the woods while Jules and I dragged you towards town, and Shawn thought he lost Longmore, only Longmore caught up, and he shot him in the shoulder! And you wouldn't wake up, Lassie!"

"Who the hell is Longmore?!"

By the fireplace, Longmore indicated his presence with an apologetic expression. "It was dark," he offered.

Lassiter stared at him incredulously. "What, was it an eclipse?! How do you shoot a kid?"

Meanwhile, Woody had retrieved a needle and a spool of catgut from his medical bag, and with Juliet's help had set to work. Shawn, exhausted and incoherent, did not resist as Woody began to sew up the front hole, humming a ditty. In fact, he hardly seemed aware of anything at all. Gus buried his face into the blankets, stomach turning at the sight of flesh being pierced and tugged closed.

Lassiter averted his gaze from both Shawn and Longmore, instead deciding to fume at the state of his foot. None of them would be in this mess if he had paid more attention to his surroundings.

Once Woody had finished suturing Shawn's front and back, he left Juliet and Gus to resettle him into a comfortable position on the cot. Wiping his bloodied fingers on his handkerchief, which he promptly tucked back into his pocket, he turned to Lassiter. "Now then," he said cheerily, pulling a bone saw from his bag. "Are we ready to amputate?"

Lassiter folded his arms and glared up at him. "I'd rather throw myself off a cliff," he said blandly. "We are not amputating. Fix it or put me out of my misery like a horse with a broken leg."

"Okay!" Woody squatted down next to his patient's ankle and unwrapped the appendage. He set the saw aside. "Have some whiskey."

Carlton took the proffered bottle and drank deeply. He made a visible effort to contain his winces and hisses of pain as the doctor poked and prodded at his wounds. Woody took a swig of the whiskey for himself and then upturned the bottle over Lassiter's foot. The man groaned, but managed to refrain from moving away.

"Well," Woody said, bending over the appendage and examining it. "Good news, my friend. I don't think we'll have to amputate just yet. Let me know when you change your mind."

Lassiter exhaled slowly. "Thanks," he said through gritted teeth. His head still pounded with fever, and he massaged his temple with a finger. Mercifully, the liquor began to do its magic, and the pain dulled slightly.

He looked up and around. "Where the hell are my guns?"

…

"I'm bored," Shawn complained. He flicked one of his checkers pieces at Gus, who let it hit him in the chest. With a resigned sigh, he picked it up and set it back on the board. Truth be told, Gus was bored as well.

Juliet ignored him and continued stirring the porridge she was making. Longmore and Lassiter had gone outside. Once they had started talking about shooting practice, the men had bonded, and now spent a lot of time together with their weapons. Through the back window, she could see them melting lead to make bullets.

Over the past few days, Juliet had been doing a lot of thinking. She and Gus had been mostly taking care of the boys—washing their wounds and bandages, spoon feeding Shawn when he was still too weak to help himself, helping Lassiter hobble outside so he could relieve himself, and so on—while Longmore fetched supplies from town and checked his traps for their next meal. It didn't take long for Lassiter's fever to break, putting him on the fast track for recovery. Shawn followed shortly afterward, and showed little signs of trauma, considering he was sleeping in the bed of the man who had shot him.

When it became apparent that Shawn would be all right, Juliet made her decision. Now, she was waiting for the opportunity to tell everyone. She felt that the time was drawing nearer.

"I'm fine," Shawn said. "I'm ready to leave. Right now!"

"Maybe we should ask Lassie first," Gus said wisely. "After all, you were shot."

"But I lived," Shawn insisted. "I can walk by myself and everything. I think that means I'm ready to go to the _Free States_." He gave Gus a meaningful look. "I'm tired of staying here."

Juliet pulled the pot from the flames. "Well," she butted into the conversation, "be that as it may, we should still ask Carlton. Maybe he's not ready to go."

"We could leave him here," Shawn replied, gesturing towards the window. "I'm sure he'd love to stay with his new best friend."  
"You know that's right," Gus muttered.

"How are you going to get to the Free States without Carlton?"

"Gus and I have sneaked onboard before. We can do it again."

"No, we haven't."  
"Yeah-huh!"

"Nuh-uh!"

"Anyway," Shawn said firmly, "we don't need Lassie. You're going to be there, Jules."

Juliet thinned her lips and scooped some porridge into several bowls. "Hungry?" she asked.

"Of course," Shawn scoffed. "Gus and me are always starving."

"Of course you are," she said. "You are boys, after all. And you've got to keep your strength up if you're going to make it."

She carried two bowls over to them, which they immediately began to devour like voracious little pigs. Juliet stuck her head out the back window and called the men in for lunch. Carlton got a head start on his hobbling inside while Longmore doused the flames and set the new bullets and spare lead aside.

When the men's conversation lulled, Juliet took the chance to jump in. "So Shawn and Gus think they're ready to go, Carlton."

The officer glanced in their direction. "They think five days is long enough for a gunshot wound to heal?"

Juliet shrugged noncommittally. "I mean, a ferry ride isn't so strenuous."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you," Carlton mused, an irritated twitch in his eyebrow. He was still sore about Shawn's getting them kicked off the last one.

"Well, I think he just wants to get home," Juliet said.

"Hmm."

She dropped the subject at that, knowing that the man was probably considering it. Juliet trusted his judgment He had gotten them this far already, and she was sure he would stay with them until they got to where they were going. Even though they did ruin his "vacation."

"Hey, Lassie!" Shawn called from across the room. "Wanna play chess? One of the horseys is missing so you have to use a checker piece."

Longmore frowned. "What happened to the knight?"

"I think Gus ate it."

"No, I didn't! You threw it earlier and now we can't find it!"

"You didn't have to dodge, Gus!"

"I have cat-like reflexes, Shawn."

"I can't do this with you right now."

The adults and Juliet rolled their eyes. Carlton pushed away from the table and limped over to the bed, shooing Gus out of the way so he could sit across from the boy. "Your king and queen are backwards…And so are your bishops and rooks. Do you even know how to play chess?"

"My dad taught me, but I wasn't really paying attention," Shawn said as he swapped the indicated pieces.

Lassiter shook his head and made his first move: seventh pawn two steps.

In retaliation, Shawn moved his bishop forward.

"You can't do that," Lassiter said, putting the piece back. He pointed at it and its surroundings. "This one only goes diagonally, and the pawns are blocking it."

"But he has the power of God," Shawn said wisely, moving the bishop back where he'd put it.

Carlton exhaled out of his nose. "Fine. Then my knight takes your bishop."

"Then my horsey takes your lady."

"That—!" Lassiter scowled. "My rook takes your king. Check and mate. Game over."

"How did I not see that!" Shawn gasped dramatically. "Gus, you're supposed to remind me about that stuff."

"I don't think I understand the rules of the game," Gus said, looking at the board confusedly.

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "We didn't play with any rules."

"Just like life."

"There are rules in life," Lassiter said.

"But not everybody plays by the same rules," Shawn said challengingly.

Lassiter scrutinized him for a moment. "No," he said slowly. "That's right."

"My dad says that life has rules," Shawn continued. "But he also says that life isn't fair. If it's not fair, then why have rules at all? Rules should apply to everyone."

Carlton made a conscious effort not to look towards Gus. Acknowledging the cruelty of society at that point was a little much. Instead, he focused on a discrepancy in the kid's speech and felt the oncoming of a revelation.

"So," he said, switching topics. "I hear you think you're ready to go on to the Free States."

"We are," Shawn nodded.

"Fine then. How's tomorrow sound?"

The kids shared a glance. "That sounds perfectly in order," Shawn responded, extending his hand.

Lassiter shook it firmly.

…

For such a small town, the dock was surprisingly busy. People milled about, crew members carried luggage and supplies off and onto the steamboat, and it was generally raucous. Shawn especially was distracted by all the commotion, eyes flicking about as he took it in. He let out a steady stream of observations, mostly aimed towards Gus, who had stopped paying attention several minutes before.

Juliet took a deep breath and let it out slowly, catching Shawn's gaze. "I'm not going with you," she repeated.

Shawn looked vaguely horrified at the revelation. "But," he protested.

She cut him off, addressing Shawn, Gus, and Carlton at once. "I miss my own family. I miss my house and my bed. I miss Declan."

"You can go home after we get to Chicago!" Shawn cried.

Juliet shook her head. "I'm homesick. I want to go home now."  
"My home can be your home," Shawn argued.

"No, Shawn…"

"Fair enough," Carlton nodded, stopping Shawn from further fighting her decision. "I can see them the rest of the way. How are you getting home?"  
"Woody and Missy are headed that way to go visit some kin. I won't be alone or with strangers." Juliet gave them a watery smile.

Shawn ducked his head and toed the dirt, the hand not hanging from a sling picking at a loose thread of his shirt. Gus was silent as well.

"Don't be sad, boys," Juliet continued. "You can always write to me when you get to where you're going. I'll write back. And someday we might see each other again!"

Shawn shrugged his shoulders.

"Promise me you'll write?"

"It's time to go," Carlton commented, nudging Shawn slightly.

"Shawn? Will you write me?"

He turned away and began to trudge towards the boat, Gus following at his heels.

"Shawn?"

The boy looked over his shoulder. "I promise," he said softly, voice nearly drowned in the noise.

Then the trio made their way onto the ferry. They stood at the railing with several other passengers, and waved farewell to Juliet, who watched them until they were gone on the horizon.

"You okay, Shawn?" Gus asked tentatively.

Shawn shrugged, staring glumly at the shoreline as it rolled idly by. Lassiter had gone in search of their bunk to put their luggage away. He'd told them in no uncertain terms that if they didn't behave, he would put a bullet in each of their brains—though both boys were under no delusions that the man was serious.

When his friend remained silent for some minutes, Gus wracked his mind for something to draw his attention. "Hey," he said, face lighting up. "Do you wanna go meet the captain of the ship? Maybe he'll even let you drive."

"…Nah…"  
"We could…explore the ship!"

Shawn shook his head.

"We could go talk to people?"

"What's there to talk about?"

"There's lots to talk about," Gus said. "Um, the weather, the news, history, mythology, dreams, uh, politics, the weather…"

"Face it, Gus. Things just aren't the same anymore. Jules is gone."

The little slave averted his gaze.

Shawn squinted into the sunlight. "She was the only woman I've ever loved, Gus."

"You know you're twelve, right?"

"Almost thirteen."

"Well, you know what your mom says. 'It's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all'."

"Hmm."

"…On the bright side, we're almost to the Free States!" Gus said. "We did it, Shawn. We made it. Now your dad can't do anything to me!"

The corners of Shawn's lips twitched upwards. "Yeah," he said. Then he straightened. "Yes, exactly! That's what this has all been about, Gus. Saving your life!"

Gus nodded. "And we'll get to see your mom again!"  
"Yeah!"

Shawn and Gus bumped their fists together, grinning.

"Let's go meet the captain," Shawn said.

"Yeah!" Gus agreed. "Wait—no—Shawn! Don't get us kicked off again!" He ran after his friend, dodging other passengers strolling along the deck.

…

The moment the gangway touched ground, Shawn and Gus were stampeding down the board, leaving all the luggage to Lassiter.

"We made it!" Shawn whooped, leaping into the air. "We're here! We're here!"

"Hello, Chicago!" Gus said, crouching down to stroke free land. He didn't even mind how filthy and smelly it was—he was free!

"Gus! We're here! Weeeeeeee made it!"

The boys embraced tightly, still grinning from ear to ear. Neither noticed the dirty looks they received from the white passersby, nor the nervous ones from the black workers.

"All right, all right," Carlton said gruffly, catching up with them. "Stop making a scene, you two."

"Lassie," Shawn said solemnly, stepping back from his friend, "you're a good man. You saved our lives."

"Uh-huh." The man seemed inherently unimpressed by Shawn's gratitude. "Well, do we need to call a car?"

"For what?"

"To get to your aunt's house," Lassiter raised an eyebrow. "Or does she live close enough to walk?"  
Shawn and Gus exchanged a look. The sheriff's son patted his pockets absently, as though searching for an address. "Um."

"You don't know where your aunt lives?" Carlton gaped incredulously.

Shawn shrugged. "It's not like my parents had time for their last words to be an address!" he exclaimed. "Besides, I thought she might be waiting here for me…"  
Gus frowned as Shawn scanned their surroundings, looking disappointed.

"Maybe she didn't hear about the _deaths_ ," Gus said meaningfully.

"Yeah…"

Carlton set the bags down and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Do you at least know her name, kid?"

"Maddie Spencer…I think…"  
"You _think_?!"

"I am _twelve_."

"Almost thirteen," Gus helpfully supplied.

"So it's possible that your aunt doesn't even live in Chicago," Lassiter said. "And that her name isn't Maddie Spencer."

Shawn looked down at his shoes. "We could ask for directions."  
"If she does live here, then it could be anywhere. It'd be a miracle that anyone knows each other in this godforsaken city."

"It can't be that big," Shawn said. "In Santa Barbara, everybody knows everyone else."

Lassiter huffed a sigh. "That's just it, kid. Chicago _is_ that big."

"Oh."

The group idled for a few minutes as Lassiter attempted to concoct a feasible plan. "We'll try the post office," he said at last. "We'll start there. Let's go."

"Where's the post office?"

"Don't know yet," Carlton answered gruffly. He strode forward, his limp barely perceptible. Shawn and Gus trailed after him, staring wide-eyed at their surroundings. As they stepped away from the port and into the city, the boys realized how extensive Chicago really was—the buildings were huge and black with soot, and people of all walks of life were bustling to and fro and milling about in the streets. The cacophony of sound and smell and sight was nearly overwhelming.

Lassiter flagged down a beat officer standing on the corner. "Excuse me, officer. Will you direct me to the nearest post?"

The officer tipped his hat and pointed his baton down the street. "Round that block there, see, then hook a left at the next corner. Can't miss it."

"Thank you."

They followed the directions, Lassiter pulling Gus out of the street as he stepped off the sidewalk at one point, nearly getting flattened by a passing carriage. Sure enough, they found the post office where the policeman had indicated.

"Let me do the talking," Lassiter said, pointing a stern finger at Shawn.

"Okay, Lassie," he said solemnly. "I'll be as quiet as a mouse—it's Gus you have to worry about. Oh! But don't say his name is Gus. Call him Lemongrass Gogoloab. No, wait—Hummingbird Saltalamacchia."

Lassiter rolled his eyes and opened the door. A little bell hung above the door dinged, merrily announcing their entrance. A young blond woman at the counter glanced up, smiling.

"Good afternoon!" she greeted. "My name is Marlowe. May I help you?"

"Miss Marlowe," Carlton said cordially. "I was hoping you could help me find someone." As he stepped up to the counter, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge, laying it on the countertop between them.

She stared at it for a moment.

Then she whipped around and raced out the back door, leaving the trio to stare after her in surprise. Lassiter snapped out his confusion almost immediately and took chase, heaving himself over the divider.

"Stay here!" he snapped at the children. " _FREEZE, SCUMBAG!"_

Gus made a face. "Is he allowed to call ladies scumbag?"

"We don't know that he called her that. Maybe there's a man back there," Shawn said. "Also, be my lookout. I'm going to find my mom's name."

"Shawn, you can't go back there!" Gus hissed.

"Shh!"

Gus pinched his lips together and looked surreptitiously at the door, praying that no one had any errands to run in this direction. Shawn had followed Lassiter's path over the counter and dropped down on the other side. He immediately set to work heaving a large address book labeled M – U out from its place on a shelf.

"S…S…S…" Shawn muttered to himself as he rifled through its contents. "Spencer…Spencer…Spencer…"

"Shawn, hurry!" Gus urged.

A finger traced down a page, then flipped on to the next.

"Aha!" he said. "Madeleine Spencer. She _does_ live here!"

"Get back over here!" Gus hissed. "Someone's coming!"

Shawn shoved the book back, then crawled under the small passageway between the counter and the wall that allowed employees to pass into the main room. He had just stood and brushed his knees off when the door slammed open.

"Let me go!" the woman snapped, kicking out with her legs and causing her skirts to fly.

Lassiter merely wrapped an arm around her waist and carried her across the threshold. She writhed in his hold, her arms trapped at her sides. Then he slammed her head backwards.

"Augh!" Carlton cried, recoiling more in surprise than pain as he heard the cartilage in his nose crunch. But he didn't drop his perp.

"You dirty, filthy, son of a—!" Marlowe screamed. "You'll never catch my brother alive!"

"What are you _talking_ about?" the officer demanded.

"Yeah," Shawn piped up. "We're just looking for my aunt's address. I'm an orphan, ma'am."

She ceased fighting almost immediately, and didn't even notice that Carlton's nose was dripping blood on her sleeve. "What? You mean he's with you?"

Shawn and Gus nodded.

"Oh my goodness," she said. "I am _so_ very sorry."

Lassiter, deciding she was not a flight risk, released her and put a hand to his nostrils to stem the bleeding. Marlowe finally noticed the injury and dug her handkerchief from her bosom, shyly giving it to him. He accepted, still slightly glaring at her.

Marlowe continued, "I'm sorry. I thought you were a dirty cop or a bounty hunter. You wouldn't be the first one to come here trying to take me hostage to get at my brother…"

"Your brother's a wanted man?"

"Yes. But he was framed," she said fervently. "My brother wouldn't hurt a fly."

Lassiter nodded slowly. "Fine."

"So you're here for an address?" she turned to Shawn, looking between him and Lassiter. "Do you know her name?"

"Maddie Spencer," Shawn supplied.

Gus gave him a curious look. They'd already gotten the address, so there was no need to wait for an adult to find it for them. But then he realized that if the grown-ups knew that Shawn had found it himself, they might be in trouble. So he wisely kept quiet.

"Well, I can see if we have her in our records," Marlowe said. She pinched Shawn's cheek as she passed, and even patted Gus's head. "Let's see." Her voice floated back to them as she perused her collection. Then she found the same tome that Shawn had used and brought it to the counter. It didn't take much time for her find the name at all.

"See, I have a Madeleine Spencer. Is that name familiar?"

Shawn nodded vigorously. "That's her! I told you, Lassie!"

"Lassie?" she cocked an eyebrow, lips twitching as she looked up at Carlton.

The tips of his ears reddened. "It's actually Lassiter. Carlton Lassiter."

"Mm-hmm. Well, I'll write this address down for you."

Marlowe took out a scratch piece of paper and scribbled the location down for them. She handed it to Lassiter, winking. "The first one is for him," she gestured to Shawn. "I've written down the directions, too. The other address is for you, if you like…I'd love to hear from you."

Shawn and Gus exchanged a gross glanced as Lassiter and Marlowe all but undressed each other with their eyes.

Unable to take it any longer, Shawn tugged Lassiter's jacket sleeve. "Let's _goooo_ ," he whined.

Lassiter rolled his eyes, breaking the spell.

Marlowe waved with a little smile as they left the post office.

"Lassie," Gus said solemnly, "you look terrible."

"Yeah," Shawn agreed. "You got beat up by a girl. Your nose is broken, and both of your eyes are turning black."

"I'll have you know," Lassiter said, "that she is an incredibly strong-willed woman."

"Are you going to marry her?" Gus asked.  
Lassiter sighed and took a look at the address in his hand, ignoring any further comments and kissing noises from the boys. "This way," he said.

Shawn and Gus skipped after him, quitting with the antics as their excitement built up. They had made it! And they were almost to Maddie's house, which meant not only were they free from Henry, but that they could move in—she would never turn them away.

The address was only a few blocks away from the post office. Shawn thought that was a good thing, because then he could go there and write to Jules whenever he wanted, and they'd be able to send money back to buy Gus's family their freedom so that they could come to Chicago, too!

Everything was working out. Shawn's life was going to be perfect—and so was Gus'.

Grinning ecstatically, Shawn hopped up the steps to the door Lassiter indicated belonged to his "aunt." He raised a fist and pounded on it, paused, then resumed pounding until he heard approaching steps on the other side. He stepped back, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and waited for the door to open.

"Mom!" Shawn cried, throwing himself forward—

Into his _dad's_ arms.

The sheriff's son tore himself away, face paling, even as Gus began to make odd little gasping noises behind him. Henry gaped at Shawn, eyes wide and red-rimmed, looking as though he'd seen a ghost. Lassiter stared in confusion at the scene.

Henry's shocked expression gave way to pure, grief-stricken relief, his chin wobbling. "Shawn…" he whispered.

"Um…Hi, Dad."

The man's expression changed again, this time into red fury. "Shaawwwwnnn! You—I—Everyone thought you were dead, Shawn! How could you do this to us?!"

Shawn immediately turned to Gus. "I told you it would work! I'm a genius!"

"No!" Henry barked. "No, you're not! I can't believe you!"

"Henry?" said a voice behind him. "Henry, what on earth is…?"

A woman appeared in the doorway, dabbing at her red and swollen eyes with a hanky. Her motions stopped the instant she locked eyes on Shawn.

"Mom!" Shawn grinned, spreading his arms.

"Oh!" Maddie gasped, shouldering her ex-husband aside and drawing her son into her tight embrace. "Oh, Goose! My Goose! You're alive! Are you okay? Where have you been? Oh, I thought—!"

"I'm okay, Mom, really."

Henry rubbed a hand down his face, calming himself.

Lassiter finally involved himself. "So…he's _not_ an orphan."

Maddie glanced up, then held Shawn at an arm's length. "You told people you were orphaned?"

"Well, yes…We had to keep our identities secret, Mom!"

"But _why_?" she despaired.

Henry and Lassiter folded their arms, glaring at Shawn. Gus attempted to make himself invisible.

Shawn pointed an accusatory finger at Henry, his bottom lip quivering. "We had to run away because Dad is evil! He's awful! Horrible!"

"What?" Henry growled.

"Shawn, what on earth do you mean?" Maddie asked, forcibly lowering his arm before his father bit the finger off.

The child angrily wiped away a few involuntary tears coursing down his cheeks. "Dad was gonna sell Gus away to die in a factory! I had to save him, Mom! I don't want Gus to die!"  
Raising her eyebrows, Madeleine turned and looked at Henry, who looked just as confused.

"What factory?" he inquired.

"Don't pretend you don't know!" Shawn yelled. "You were gonna sell him to Trout!"

"Trout?" Henry suddenly laughed. "Kid, Trout doesn't know the first thing about marketing. Why would I sell him anything?"

"You said…!"

"What did I say, Shawn? Think about it."

"You said you'd consider it."  
"Which means?"

"Which means maybe, Dad!"  
"And when has maybe ever meant yes, Shawn?"

Shawn opened his mouth to retort, but nothing issued forth. He really thought about it—every time his father had ever told anyone 'maybe,' as far Shawn knew the answer had later been a resounding 'no.'

"You were never gonna sell Gus," he said.

"Of course I wasn't," Henry scoffed, shaking his head. "Well, what's done is done."

"What do you mean?"

"The Guster family is free," Henry shrugged. "I signed the freedom papers to compensate for their loss—you know, back when I thought you and Gus were _dead_. They should be coming north. I left them enough fare to get here."

"We're free?" Gus asked hopefully. "All of us? Me and Joy and Mom and Dad?"

"Yep," Henry nodded.

Shawn and Gus beamed at each other.

"Never mind, Mom!" Shawn said brightly. "Dad is awesome! Gus, let's go back to the post office and write a letter to Jules to celebrate!"

"Okay!"

They ran off together, not heeding of Henry and Maddie's calling after them. The boys careened around the corner, whooping and cheering.

Lassiter was left standing awkwardly with Henry and Maddie, who demanded and asked, respectively, just who he was.

"I'm a sucker," he said.

….

 _Dear Shawn and Gus,_

 _I am very glad to hear that everything has worked out well. I'm home! My family and I are also doing great. Declan is in Italy at boarding school now, but I'm hoping I can convince his parents to let him come back. Would you be kind enough to pass on my address to Carlton? I'd like to hear from him._ _Do you think he will divorce his wife to date the post office lady?_ _Oh, don't answer that. Gossip is for spinsters and politicians, anyway. I just hope Carlton finds happiness. I think he deserves it after everything he's been through…_

 _My mother and I are leaving for the grocery, so I'll send this while we're in town. I look forward to hearing back!_

 _Sincerely,_

 _Juliet O'Hara_

 _P.S. Thank you for the offer, Shawn, but I think we should wait a few years before you propose marriage to anyone…_

 **A/N:** Finally finished! This summer has been so busy so far...


End file.
